


The Dark Forest

by infinite_regress



Series: Lagradil Tales [3]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Adventure, Chases, Danger, F/M, Flying, Kissing, Magic, Romance, dragons sort of, halloween whouffaldi, howling wolves, threat, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-01-22 01:57:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 55,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12470920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infinite_regress/pseuds/infinite_regress
Summary: The Doctor and Clara are on the run from the Marquis and his men after Clara was 'chosen' to be the Marquis' bride.They are forced into hiding in a magical Dark Forest, and in a moment of weakness the Doctor does something that has unexpected consequences.  He and Clara must confront Lagradil's dangers, her growing powers, as well as their irresistible feelings for each other.





	1. Running

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Penumbral_Spaces](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penumbral_Spaces/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Choosing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12325311) by [infinite_regress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/infinite_regress/pseuds/infinite_regress). 



The Doctor and Clara hurtled full-tilt through a darkening forest, hand in hand, hearts pounding. It had been late afternoon, with the sun scattering golden flecks of light through the feathered branches of the tall, spindly trees at the edge of the forest when they had first fled the Marquis and his men. Now, as the last vestiges of light licked through the dense canopy of ancient trees, an angry wind tore at the delicate red dress Clara had worn to the Choosing, and spiteful thickets bit her, ripping the fine fabric, pricking and tearing her skin beneath. Clara could see why the forest got its name, for barely any light reached the forest floor. The Doctor had long since lopped the high heels off her sparkly shoes, now spattered with mud, and they offered scant protection against the low-growing nettles lashing her feet and legs.

With the scant light fading fast, Clara held tight to the Doctor’s hand, as he seemed to pick his way through the gloom more skilfully than she could. Perhaps his eyes adjusted quicker to the gloom. Maybe it was a Time Lord thing. She’d ask him, one day, when they were safe and warm in comfort of the TARDIS. 

“Do you think he’ll give up? It’s almost dark now,” the Doctor whispered. They had paused to catch a breath, backs pressed to a tree, and Clara felt every knot on its gnarly surface. This flimsy dress was far too low cut, back and front. On reflection, that had been the first clue things were not right. She shivered, partly at the cold, for even the desperate running wasn’t enough to keep her warm now, but partly at the narrow escape. She’d almost been the Marquis unwilling bride, duped into forgetting who she was and what she wanted. 

The Doctor glanced her way, and without a word shrugged his jacket off and held it for her to put on. Clara slid her arms gratefully into the long sleeves, and pulled the front tight around her. His hands rested on her shoulders, and for a moment, in the shelter of the big tree, they were pressed close together, her back to his front, and the moment was sweet. His breath was a live thing on her cheek, stronger than the sharp wind, a warming glow in the cold air. He scooped her closer, as if he was trying to keep her warm, or safe, in spite of the very obvious fact she was neither. The Marquis would not give up easily. The squalid jail cells of Lagradil were full of those who displeased the Marquis, and the swinging cage at Dead Man’s Cross held the bones of the last man to openly defy him. Clara was pretty sure the Doctor stealing her from under the Marquis’ nose counted as defiance, never mind the fact that he’d tricked and drugged her. That aside, Clara didn’t think she could run all night and she told the Doctor so.

“I know,” he agreed. “Our best bet is to find shelter for tonight. First light tomorrow we’ll get hold of some sort of disguise. You’re far too conspicuous in that dress. Maybe I’ll sneak to the outskirts of town and get you some other clothes. Then we can go back into the market and find the TARDIS.”

Clara nodded, her teeth chattering. The Doctor held her for a moment longer, and then almost reluctantly stepped away. He became instantly alert, every muscle tense, his keen senses scanning for signs of pursuers in the treacherous darkness.

“This way,” he urged, and Clara followed. How often had she followed him into and out of danger? How many breathless adventures? How many blistered feet, or bruised shins, or scraped knees was she prepared to endure to keep running with him? As she slipped her hand into his and felt her heart trip into that familiar, soaring flutter, she knew the answer. All of them. All the risks. All the adventure. _I’ll never give him up._

Looking back, perhaps it was at that moment, shivering in the bleak forest, that she realised it wasn’t just the adventure or danger she was a addicted to. It was _him_.

The forest was almost pitch black now, with patches of pale moonlight seeping through the smothering trees. The path they followed was narrow, branches and thorns lashed at Clara’s arms, and sometimes her face, leaving scratches on her cheeks she barely had time to register before the Doctor urged her on.

“I don’t think they’re following anymore. Must have given up and turned in for the night.”

“Thank god,” Clara said, breathing hard, trembling with the cold. The Doctor gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. She managed a smile. His faded blue eyes were grey in the darkness, but they reassured her none the less. This was alright. They’d be home soon, back in the TARDIS. When they got back, maybe they should sit down and talk. It was her ill-judged attempt to get the Doctor’s attention that had gotten her into trouble with the Marquis in the first place. The Doctor was so close, she could almost taste the raw energy tumbling off him on her lips. For an aching moment he leaned closer, his eyes trapping hers in a mesmerising waltz that sent her heart skittering. She snatched a sharp intake of breath. Perhaps it was time to lay down her cards and tell him how she felt. Tell him every time she left the TARDIS it was like ripping her heart out. 

A distant howl, long and wild and reaching, stretched out in the darkness, chilling Clara to the core. It was answered in kind by three, maybe four, yowling replies from the undergrowth behind them.

Clara swore, her throat tightening, heart leaping, as the last howl faded. 

The Doctor took a step back, raised his head, tilting it to one side, as if he was listening and running a hundred calculations at once. He raised a finger to the wind. His voice was low and urgent.

“We need to run to the east, down wind and away from the pack. The path we just came up veers off a few hundred meters back that way.”  
Clara nodded, her eyes wide with fear. Images of snarling teeth and fangs snapped at her mind. She was already exhausted. Her feet were blistered and very likely bleeding. Her hands wouldn’t stop trembling no matter how hard she tried to still them, and her head rushed with fear, and, probably, with having gone so long without food. Her legs felt weak. How could she run when she could barely stand?

The Doctor took her hands between his own. “Are you scared? Because I know I am. But I also know we can do this. You and me, Clara.”

Clara looked up at the Doctor. Above all else, beyond logic and reason, she believed in _him_. Screwing up every last bit of courage she possessed, digging deep into a well of resilience she’d stocked with years of running and hiding, thinking fast and being brave, Clara took his hand.

They ran, almost blind though the deep forest. The crack, crackle of scattered twigs snapped in the air, and Clara prayed the Marquis’ men had truly given up for the night and they only had the wolves to fear. Roots and leaves underfoot made the going treacherous, making Clara snatch her balance more than once. 

The wind whipped the dense branches over head, revealing the blackened sky and the almost-full moon. 

The wolves howled again. 

Clara stumbled, grabbing the Doctor’s arm. Her chest burned now, as she heaved lungful’s of chilled air. How much longer could she run like this? 

As if he sensed her distress, the Doctor said gently, “I think we’re making ground. Those howls were further away.”

Clara nodded, saving her breath, a strange kind of second wind gripping her. She wasn’t shivering with cold anymore, but with determination.

Clara had no clue how long they continued the relentless chase, crashing through the dark, hauling her protesting body through the chilled night air, but at some point a fine mist of rain began, soaking her flimsy dress until, part way scrambling down a rough slope of loose scree, where the trees gave way to a rocky area, hemmed in by a steep bank flanking one side. 

The Doctor pulled her to a halt. “There. We passed that on our way through when it was still light. There was a cave in the hillside...” He pulled her on, and sure enough the crescent moon spilled light over a shadowy cave mouth.

Relief flooded through Clara, and with it a wave of trembling exhaustion. She stumbled the last few steps to the shelter of the tiny nook. The

Doctor had to stoop to get through the entrance, and more so once they were inside. The cave was only a few feet across, and it smelled of damp leaves, but it was dryer than the mist outside and sheltered from the wind.

Clara sunk to her knees, while the Doctor peered out into the darkness. The floor was hard sand, covered in crisp leaves and mulch, and to Clara it felt like the most welcome soft downy quilt. 

“I’m pretty sure those wolves or whatever they were are the other side of the ridge, now,” said the Doctor.

Clara didn’t reply, and he took a pace back, turned in the small space and sat beside her. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“A hundred times better now we’ve stopped running and got out of the wind,” she said. She was actually footsore as hell, and starving, but she didn’t feel like admitting that.

“No more running,” he said. “I promise.”

Just as well. Clara knew if she sat still for more than a few moments she’d succumb to the aching exhaustion hanging over her like a shroud. The light fabric of her dress offered little warmth, and she pulled the Doctor’s coat around her body as tightly as she could. 

“You’re shivering,” noted the Doctor. 

“I’m fine.”

“I’m not. Will you warm me up?”

Clara barely had the strength to laugh at his feeble deception. He wrapped his arms around her and drew her close, pulling her back towards his chest. Her head swam, a fuzz of thoughts jockying for space in her brain. They were safe now, for a moment out of time, snuggled together in this den. They should probably talk. But even as she thought it, she was already drifting into the warm retreat of sleep, for sleeping was far easier than putting into words the muddle of emotions swamping her. 

“Doctor,” she began, but words faded into the bliss of heat gentle heat rippled over her skin, then sinking into her muscles, her bones, renewing her DNA, if she could only see it. But she saw nothing, for her eyes flickered softly into sleep.

*

“Hush,” the Doctor whispered. A golden glow lingered on his finger tips, trailing lightly across Clara’s check, healing the welts and cuts from the cruel forest. Probably cost him a finger or toe down the line, but it would be worth it to see the pain smoothed out from her face, the slashes on her hands vanish, to know the blisters on her feet were no more. The curse of the Time Lords, burning him up over and over, stealing his peace, dragging him back from death to start over and over again. But as much as it was a curse, he was wise enough know it for a blessing at times like this. The gift of healing in the dark, a brush of magic to take her tears and bring comfort.

What wouldn’t he do for Clara Oswald? The thought hit him, ploughing through him as a physical sensation, hard and unrelenting. He was trapped in her orbit now. There was nothing he could do but wait and watch.

She made a small sigh, and moved closer to him, mumbling words that sounded like “I love you,” but he didn’t take them too seriously, because she was vulnerable like this, and words like that could burn him, and her too. She had no business loving an old fool like him, if that was even what she’d said. It probably wasn’t.

“Hush,” he whispered again, simultaneously wanting to unhear the words he thought she’d said, and ask her what she meant by it. But she drifted peacefully into sleep, and he wouldn’t disturb her or shatter this moment, not for anything. 

The Doctor watched Clara as the moon, framed by the cave’s mouth, crept on its course through the sky, it’s silvery light casting flitting shadows across Clara’s face. Rain began in earnest outside, a gentle patter increasing to a rhythmic thrum, soothing in a strange kind of way. He sat for maybe an hour or more, cradling Clara, wondering long would he be blessed with her. Humans come and go in the blink of a Time Lord’s eye, but they were never small, not to him. Clara loomed as a large force in his life, always there for him. She saved him in so many ways. Dragging him out of the Monastery when the Bells of Saint John rang, persuading the Time Lords to save him, and saving all of him, every life time on Trenzalore. Saving him from his choice in that barn on Gallifrey. Helping him make a better one. He owed her much more than he could ever repay. She would never ask, he knew. 

Clara stirred, and he pulled her closer to warm her. She might never ask for it, but the duty of care fell to him, and he wouldn’t shirk it. He could love her from a distance, hold hard to that duty, be the friend she deserved. If she never loved him back the way he loved her, then that was alright, and safer by far.

*

Clara stirred as the Doctor called her name. His voice lilting accent seemed to penetrate a wall of fog. She had no desire to wake up. It seemed only seconds ago she closed her eyes, and she was comfortable here, in his arms. 

“How do you feel?” she heard him say. Strangely enough, she actually didn’t feel too bad. Her leg muscles didn’t hurt anywhere near as much as she expected. She had drifted to sleep feeling battered and raw. Now she felt, well, comfortable. Certainly not inclined to move from his embrace, which was sweet, and warm, and felt deeply _right_.

“Okay,” she said. ‘Surprisingly—” 

He cut her off. “Good. Because we can’t stay here.” 

She groaned and dragged herself fully back to consciousness. “What now?”

The Doctor lifted a finger past her chin, and pointed to a small mound at the back of the cave. “I’ve been wondering what that is.”

A snuffling, grunting creature emerged from the mound of leaves and twigs. In the dim light it, was impossible to see clearly, but it scratched and hopped its way towards them, using its wings in the place of front paws. Its body was the size of a small dog, with leathery wings, ears pricked upright, and a scaly snout resembling a pig’s.

“Uh oh. I suppose it’s not snuffles here we really have to worry about, is it?”

“No. I think it’s Mum or Dad we should be concerned with.” 

The creature froze, as if it had seen them for the first time, its ears flattened close to its head. 

“Hey,” Clara said softly, holding out her hand. “It’s alright. We won’t hurt you.”

The snuffling creature gave a trill, and put its head on one side. It’s eyes were oddly large and round, like a bush baby or lemur’s, but it didn’t move any further, forwards or back.

“I think we should go before—” Even as the Doctor spoke, a rumbling growl, deep and sonorous, the type that could be felt in the chest as well as heard, sounded outside the cave. The moon vanished, blocked by a swathe of fur and a scale-covered snout. 

Snuffles turned his head to the cave’s entrance, and gave another trill, longer this time, high and reedy. He was answered with a blasting roar that shook the cave and blasted the leaves and twigs up off the floor in a storm. 

Clara scrambled to her feet, heart hammering, gasping as the stench of the beast’s hot breath filled the cave. She searched for the Doctor, fumbling for his hand in the darkness, exhilaration and fear thrilling through her chest in skittering waves. Unaccountably, after the little sleep she’d had, she felt rejuvenated, renewed, ready for anything. 

One saucer-like eye hung where the moon had been. Two vicious fangs protruded from the beast’s snout, pure white, shining and sharp, and easily as long Clara’s forearm. At their feet, snuffles trilled again, urgently, his snout raised, his own tiny fangs now exposed, scuffing his back feet in the leaves on the cave’s floor in an agitated shuffle.

“Clara, About the running,’ the Doctor whispered, clutching her hand tightly. “I fear I may have spoken just a tiny bit too soon.”


	2. Flying High

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor's well-intentioned gift of regeneration energy has some unexpected effects on Clara, leaving her feeling elated and reckless. Also, there's nasty creatures in the Dark Forest.

“Uh oh. Mum’s home,” said the Doctor.

The beast roared, ripples of foul air flooded the cave, swirling the debris up in a whirlwind of dust and grit that stung Clara’s face. She yanked the Doctor flat against the cave wall, her brain going a hundred miles an hour to figure out how the hell they were going to get out of this. 

The snuffling baby continued stamping its back feet and thrusting its snout into the air.

In her teacher training, one of Clara’s placements was in a school nursery unit, and on day three she learned that when little Billy has climbed over the nursery fence and is tearing out of the school gates, you don’t stop to ask why. You give chase. Hoping the same reasoning applied to snorting dragon-beasties, Clara took a sharp step towards Snuffles, clapping her hands and stomping her feet.

“Shoo!”

The little creature leapt forwards, trilling in a high, agitated tone, flapping it’s wings wildly in the confined space. 

The Doctor soon caught on, urging the creature towards the cave’s mouth, his arms whirling in an odd, half-crumpled break dance, his legs bandied as he couldn’t quite stand upright without cracking his head on the cave’s roof. It would actually be quite funny, Clara decided, if the bellowing beast outside wasn’t itching to tear them to shreds.

Clara kicked up a foot full of leaves just behind Snuffles, and with a high-pitched squeal, the small creature shot out of the cave, past its Mama, and away into the darkness. 

For one long moment, Mama’s accusing eye, like a dark moon, bored into Clara. “I’m sorry,” she found herself mumbling. “We don’t mean any harm.” The beast swung around, lashing its spiked tail hard up into the lip of the cave’s mouth. The Doctor jerked Clara backwards, just as a choking shower of dust rained down. Clara was momentarily sheltered by the Doctor’s arms and back, and then, in a bliss of scrambling, they were both running, out of the cave, away into the night.

“This way!” The Doctor guided her away from the hollering beast, which was pursuing its babe. Once again, Clara tore through the darkness, the wind biting through her flimsy dress, her broken shoes still quite useless for running. The rain had turned from an irritating mist to driving in drops that stung her eyes and soaked her in moments flat. But this time, Clara felt exhilarated. Her heart soared, bursting with the sheer thrill of tearing through an alien forest hand in hand with this amazing man. He’d chosen her to share his adventures. She felt grateful. Privileged. More than that, she felt _powerful_. As they hurtled through the darkness, adrenaline pulsing, Clara’s head zigzagged. Her thoughts were electric, buzzing, leaping. She could do anything! Run, climb, jump. Nothing could hurt her. Nothing could stop her. She wanted to laugh out loud, shout it into the cold night air. 

Eventually, the Doctor tugged her hand, easing them into a walk. “We can stop now,” he said.

“Why?” Clara didn’t want to stop. They could run all night, run right back into town. If the Marquis and his men tried to stop them, well, she’d face him down. Make him sorry he tried to steal her. 

“Clara! Slow down,” the Doctor tried to keep her hand, but she jerked herself away, and spun around, arms wide, spinning and spinning in an exhilarating twirl, letting the cool air flow around her.

“Stop? I’m just getting started!” Clara flung her head back and let the rain fall full in her face. She hadn’t felt so alive in, well, ever, and as the rain spots hit her hands, she saw every drop splash up from her skin. The night noises were loud and clear. Twigs snapping. Animals rustling in secret places. The distant rush and bubble of a stream. And the Doctor, his blue eyes a shining emblem of all that was good in the universe. Suddenly the forest narrowed to those eyes, laser sharp. His eyes, his mouth. She’d hesitated long enough. She wanted him. What was so wrong with that? Would the universe implode because a Time Lord and a teacher loved each other? 

He became her prey, and she pounced, flinging herself into his arms, pressing her mouth hard to his.

“Clara!” he exclaimed, pushing her back to arms length. “Are you feeling okay? “

“Don’t be like that!” 

He looked into her eyes, but not in a sexy look-into-my-eyes way, but a very doctorish let-me- examine-your-pupils kind of way. “This is my fault,” he said, sighing deeply. 

“What are you talking about?”

“Clara, you’re high.”

“Don’t be ridiculous! I feel perfectly fine.” And she _did_ feel fine. Perfect, better than ever. Her body was tingling, her blood rushing. She could run forever! They could run forever, never stop.

“You’re really not,” the Doctor insisted. “You’re almost glowing. Is your head racing? Feeling invulnerable? Disinhibited?” 

Clara didn’t want to talk. This was the time for action, not clever words. She moved to kiss him again. He backed away, stumbling back towards a rocky outcrop, raising his hands as a physical barrier between them. 

“I’ll take that as a yes on disinhibited,” he said, and didn’t look altogether happy about it, his eyebrows making an exhibition of his distaste. 

“What are you wittering on about?” Clara said crossly. Why was he backing away, when finally everything was falling into place? They could be so right together. They fit perfectly. She’d known it so long, and so did he. How could he push her away like this? She took another step closer, forcing him to raise his arms to avoid his hands ending up on her chest. She flung her arms around his shoulders.

The Doctor sighed, extracting himself from her embrace by side-stepping. “I’m sorry. I should have guessed something like this would happen. While you were asleep I used a tiny trickle of regeneration energy on you. Just enough to heal your wounds. This...” Clara made another grab for him, but he ducked away. “This is a side effect.”

“Well if it is, I like it,” she said, pouting, shrugging his coat off her shoulders to reveal the low cut dress clinging to her body. Despite the rain, she felt hot. Burning even. And surely he wanted to look? He’d held her in a pretty dance with his eyes often enough, whisked her away in that snog box of his. Wasn’t it about time there was some actual snogging involved? 

He looked away, and said in a pained voice, “You’re not yourself. And when this wears off, you are going to crash.” 

He took the lapels of his jacket firmly in his hands and hitched the coat back up over her shoulders. 

“You’re no fun,” she whined. 

“You’ll thank me for it in the morning,” he said firmly, as if he intended that to be the last of it. His paternalistic tone made her want to spit.

“I won’t,” she snapped, “and nor will you.” 

He was staring at her, and for a moment she thought he’d changed his mind. Her heart did an odd little tango in her chest, victory sweeping through her in a glorious rush. _He wants me_. _No more denying it, no more running away!_ But through the maelstrom in her head something else vied for attention. Behind her. Vibrations. A rapid tap, tap, tapping through the ground, so fast she barely registered it. The Doctor’s eyes were not on her any longer, but gazing transfixed over her shoulder. 

Reflected in his eyes were eight more. 

The Doctor shoved her to one side, sending her staggering and stumbling over the uneven ground, but away from the sight that had transfixed him: eight black legs, the two shortest framing fearsome jaws. Jaws open wide. Fangs glistening. Each leg longer than the TARDIS was high, the hair-covered abdomen wider than Clara’s Dad’s Ford Fusion. The fragmented images resolved in her head: a spider as big as a car.

The Doctor’s shove had propelled _her_ clear of the monstrous legs, but in pushing her he lost his own momentum, and was left in the open, at the creature’s mercy. The great spider’s spinnerets pulsed, shooting a fine trail of binding silk, smothering the Doctor in a silver shroud.

Clara hit the ground and rolled, and kept rolling until she crashed into a pile of logs. She scrambled to her feet, desperately searching for something, anything to fight with.  A branch stuck out from the logs she'd crashed into, and with one heave cracked it clean from the fallen tree trunk. 

The spider tucked it’s live-package under one leg, and then turned on her, raising it’s spinnerets ready to shoot sticky silk. 

“Oh no you don’t!” she yelled, swinging the branch up at the spiders belly with force that surprised her. The spider scuttled to the left, with a low hiss, then swung at her again with its fangs. 

Clara dodged and ducked behind a rock formation jutting out from the forest floor. Breathing hard, she was aware of many things at once. She felt no pain, and she probably should after crashing into those logs. Perhaps the Doctor was right. Maybe she _was_ high. If she was, this was the best feeling, ever. She peered around the side at the spider’s great hulk, with its bundle of wrapped Time Lord hooked under one of its eight legs.

The Doctor was unable to move, wrapped in deadly silk embrace, helpless. 

If that bloody spider thought it was stealing her man then it could think again. Clara roared in fury, and leapt out from behind the rock, aiming another blow at the spider. It let out an irritated squeal, but took a step back spitting silk, and she felt threads weaving and tangling her legs.

Clara kicked her feet free of the sticky strands, and scrambled up atop the rock formation, still gripping the branch in her hand. 

The spider scuttled away. In seconds it would disappear into the Dark Forest. If that happened, she’d never see the Doctor again.

“Oh no you don’t!” Clara roared. Without a moment’s thought, she launched herself at the giant spider, soaring through the night air and down, down, down onto the beast’s back. She landed in a half-kneel, one hand on the black flesh to steady herself, the hairs on its huge body spiking her bare leg. One chance before it threw her clear to do some damage, one chance to get the terrible creature to release the Doctor. Clara raised the stick as high over her head and with a mighty scream, thrust it into the creature’s back. The spider reared on its hind legs, and with a hissing squeal, twisted, flinging her high into the air.

Clara had dreamed of flying more than once, especially nights she slept on the TARDIS after a wild adventure. But this was better than dream-flying. This was pure freedom; the wind tearing her hair, knocking the breath from her lungs, the Doctor's coat flapping open in a rythmic, rippling rush, and through it all her fist gripping her stick tight. Then she hit the ground and was tumbling side over side down a wet, grasy slope, and then with a jolt and a sickening rush, she was plummeting, falling, falling, and as she crashed to the ground, the last thought in her head, oddly, was that she was damn well keeping hold of her stick. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is growing legs, so to speak! I'm thinking of sending Clara full D&D to rescue the Doctor. And who knows what the long terms effects of him sharing regeneration energy in this strange, mystical forest will be? 
> 
> Comments greedily gobbled up and turned into enthusiasm to write more chapters... :)


	3. Sometimes a Girl Has to Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara wakes up in the garden of a mysterious old woman, and the Doctor finds himself at the mercy of a giant spider, Baldor. There's no way Clara is going to let the Doctor be a spider's dinner, but she'll need every inch of cunning and bravery she possesses if she's going to save him from a terrible fate.

Clara was swimming. Up through a deep, cold fog. Her arms and legs were so heavy she could hardly move them, but she kept trying, because there was something very important at the surface.  Shoulders hurt the worst. No, scratch that, her legs did. Something slimy lapped at her face, moist and warm, smelling of wet dog. Clara’s stomach churned over, and if it wasn’t for that fact that her tummy was achingly empty, she might well have vomited. 

“Wassat you found, Scruff?” came a cracked, wizened voice.

Clara opened her eyes briefly, then groaned, shielding her face from the obscenely bright sky, her head buzzing like a hornet’s nest had taken up residence in her skull.

Someone, or something, pulled Scruff away, and then rough hands started their own exploration of her face, moving over her cheekbones and then tugging her hair, patting the shoulders of Doctor’s jacket, and plucking at the silk dress she wore underneath. 

Clara shoved the hands away, and forced herself to sit upright. “Pack that in,” she tried to say, but through the racket in her skull only managed a half-incoherent mumble.

“A girl, are you?” 

“Of course I am,” she grumbled. “Keep your hands to yourself.” When Clara finally managed to focus, she saw a grey haired old woman squatting on her haunches, with misty white eyes staring ahead. 

“Oh. Sorry. You’re blind,” Clara mumbled.  

The old woman huffed. “Esmeveeskemea.”  

“What?” 

“My name. Esmeveeskemea.”

“Oh,” Clara replied, more than a little lost. 

“It’s pronounced  Es-me-veh-es-ka-mea,” the old woman said.  “Don’t worry. You can call me Ekkie. My Dashma always did. In fact, no one ever called me Esmeveeskemea, except me Ma” 

Everything was too loud, too bright. The birds were deafening, an unseen rowdy chorus vying for attention. A stream crashed nearby. Clara wanted to clap her hands over her ears, but the scrap of a dog was busy shoving its nose in all the places Clara least wanted a dog’s nose. She tried push it away, but every movement she made hurt.

The dog, with a wet black nose and a wiry, white and brown coat, continued its horrible sniffing. Clara looked up. She was laying at the bottom of a sheer wall of tufty grass and mud that seemed to make up the back boundary of a wide tangled garden. She’d landed on a pile of leaves and twigs, which had done something, at least, to break her fall.

Clara groaned, trying to block out the chaos of stimuli crashing in in her, and deal with one thing at a time. “Look, Ekkie, can you get your dog...”

“Scruff’s not my dog. Just turned up in my garden one day. Bit like you. Dashma said we should probably give him dinner. He never left.” The old lady straightened up. “You’ll be wanting breakfast, then?” 

Clara shook her head to try to clear it. Ekkie set off, with surprising speed for a blind woman, down an overgrown path towards a tumbledown cottage.

“Pretty girl out this time of the morning in a silk dress and a man’s coat,” she called over her shoulder, “got to be a story in  _ that _ .” The old lady patted her thigh sharply. “Scruff, c’mon.” The dog leapt up, and scampered after his not-mistress. 

Clara lay back for a moment on the cold, damp leaves, chilled to the bone, bruised in places she didn’t want to think about, aching with hunger, her mouth as sour as week-old cooked cabbage, and on top of all that, desperately worried about the Doctor. She considered starting straight out to search for him. But with no idea where to look, in a torn silk dress, starving hungry, sick and bruised, and with no more than a pointy stick to her name, frankly she didn’t fancy her chances of making it out of this garden, never mind anywhere else. 

A waft of blue smoke rose from the cottage chimney, and the promise of warmth and breakfast won the day. Clara grabbed her stick, and blearily followed Ekkie towards the ramshackle stone cottage, through the shrubs heavy with early morning dew, and the wild, fragrant herb bushes, and all the time wondering what the hell she’d gotten into now.

*

The Doctor tried an experimental wiggle of his fingers. When that failed, on account of the layers upon layers of web jamming his hands tight to his side, he flexed his biceps and wiggled his shoulders. He found if he shifted quickly enough to one side then the other, he could effect a small swinging motion. But he had no idea how high up he was, and really didn’t fancy plunging an unknown distance into heaven-knows-what, so he focused his attention on moving his head back and forth, to tease the web around his face apart. After a hour or so of careful maneuvering, there was enough give in the cocoon to ease his nose through the silk shrouding his face, making it marginally easier to breathe. He still couldn’t see, though, and his understanding of his location was limited to the vague feeling, based on the smell of varying levels of decomposition, accompanied by the occasional weak grunt or squeal, that he was in a larder. It would appear  _ he _ was the main course. What a way for a Time Lord to go. Dinner for a giant arachnid. Regenerating wouldn’t be any use, either, he’d be starter, dinner, and dessert in short order. Assuming there was enough of him left  _ to _ regenerate after the spider had eaten its fill. 

At least Clara got away. He had to believe she did. He’d sense her if she was close, wouldn’t he? He called her name as best he could a few times in a fit of muffled panic, but eventually he decided she wasn’t in the larder, and had in fact been thrown clear of the spider. Which meant she was still in the forest, probably with the mother of all headaches. It was foolish of him, he knew, to gift her with regeneration energy. But he’d been unable to bear seeing her hurt. Now, she was alone in the dark woods, with the wolves and the spiders and the snuffling dragon-pig, with the Marquis’ men still on her trail. He redoubled his efforts, wiggling his hands up to his shirt’s breast pocket where he’d stashed his sonic screwdriver after he had given Clara his coat.  

*

Ekkie’s home was a jumble of pickle jars and books, bottles of all shapes and sizes stacked on shelves, crates of apples and eggs and some purple fruit or vegetables Clara couldn’t begin to identify. A small stove in the front wall was the centre piece of the room, flanked by the two chairs in which she and Ekkie now sat. At the back of the room was a curtained off area, the only possible place to sleep, for the cottage had no other room Clara could see. 

The cottage was still and warm, and while Ekkie busied herself piling logs on the fire and cooking, Clara, now dressed in an oversized shirt that Ekkie had pulled from a cupboard, tried to make sense of the whirlwind in her racing mind.  

After a few moments of marshalling her thoughts, Clara looked up at the old lady. “I can’t stay. My friend. This terrible spider wrapped him up and ran off with him.” 

Ekkie handed Clara a bowl of what looked like omelette, and smelled as good as anything Clara had ever eaten. How long had it been since her last meal? With a jolt, she realised it had probably been more than twentyfour hours. Breakfast was the last meal she remembered back in Lagradil town, before the choosing.

Ekkie eased herself into a wooden chair by the fire, opposite Clara. Scruff turned himself around a few times before settling at the old lady’s feet. 

“Ack,” said the woman. “Giant spider? That will be Baldor. She’ll have took him for the younglings. Was he fit and healthy?”

“Well, yes.”

“They’ll weaken him by hanging him in the larder for a few days before they eat him.”  

That didn’t comfort Clara one bit, and knowing the giant spider had a  _ name _ was even more terrifying. “Is there a nest?” she asked, dubiously, unwelcome images of a black-bodied giant spider and her babies scuttling through the forest invading her mind.

“First things first. What’s your name, and what are you doing way out here, dressed like that?” Ekkie wanted to know. 

“I’m Clara. Oswald. Long story. I really do need to find my friend,” Clara said, continuing to shovel the egg into her mouth, caring little for appearances at this point. She couldn’t remember ever feeling so hungry. “We were chased by a monster. A sort of dragon-pig thing? And then the giant spider wrapped him up in a horrible web and took him. I tried to fight it off. But all I had was this stick.” Clara had propped her stick next to her chair, as if it was the last link back to the Doctor. For a moment, fully aware of how crazy that sounded, she thought the woman was laughing at her, or perhaps didn’t believe her. 

Something else hit her. Among the running and falling and spider-bashing, hadn’t there also been some kissing? Clara groaned at the memory, face flushing with embarrassment. Why had she done that? She’d never live it down. And the worst of it was he made it pretty clear he wasn’t interested in her in that way.  

Ekkie snorted. “You didn’t go upsetting Snuffkin, did you?”

“Snuffkin?” 

Ekkie continued as if Clara hadn’t spoken. “Her babbie is just a wee thing. She’s very sensitive at the moment.”

“Um, we needed somewhere to shelter...”

“Why?” Ekkie crossed her arms, and pressed her back in the chair. “What you doing out here dressed like that?”

Clara tried to figure out her best response. What if the old lady was loyal to the Marquis? Could she trust her? 

“Do you live alone out here?” Clara began, tentatively. The second chair, the books, two mugs on the dresser, all pointed to another person. In the garden, Ekkie had mentioned someone, Dashma. Dashma could be racing to town right now to summon the Marquis, for all Clara knew. She stuffed the last of the eggs down, and glugged her hot tea, ready to bolt if need be.

Ekkie sighed, bent forward and scratched Scruff’s forehead. The little dog lifted his head, two tufty ears pricked upright on his forehead,  and gave a satisfied whine before settling down again.

“Let me tell you a story, Clara-in-the-fine-dress. Many years ago, the father of our present Marquis, in the twisted tradition of this land, took it upon himself to choose his partner. But the one he desired did not wish to be chosen by him.”

Clara sat up, her attention fully on Ekkie now. The old lady seemed to sit a little straighter, too. “Now you’ll know that our Marquis wants a wife. He’s probably for choosing a beautiful woman, no doubt in fine shoes and a silk dress. But his father was enchanted by a gentle, dark boy, with eyes like coals and hair of a raven. I’m not saying there was anything wrong with that, mind, if two freely chose each other, but this boy, you see, he didn’t love the Marquis.” The old lady’s fingers pulled absently through her long, grey hair, tugging the tangled tresses, as if she was pulling out a memory from a distant place.  

“The boy was Dashma?” Clara said. 

Ekkie stopped fiddling with her hair, and clutched the arms of her chair, her weathered hands gripping tight. “Time comes,” she said, “a girl has to fight for what she loves.”

“You fought the Marquis?”

“Let’s just say Dashma didn’t make it to the square.” Ekkie’s blank eyes rested on a spot over Clara’s shoulder,  looking inward at some long-ago memory of a daring flight, or heroic escape. “We ran away together. And ended up here.”

“Where is he now?”

“He died.”

“I’m sorry.”

Ekkie huffed. “Nothing to be sorry for. We had forty three years together. Good years. The best. I wouldn’t trade them for anything,” again Ekkie stared into the distance, her face tranquil. “Some days, we’d ride on Snuffkin, and soar so high I swear we were touching the clouds.”

“You  _ ride _ the dragon-pig?” Clara exclaimed. 

“Well, not anymore. Bit hard to balance when I can’t see.” Ekkie leaned forward, her face suddenly intense, demanding an answer of Clara.

Clara was starting to like Ekkie. Perhaps she could trust her. She didn’t appear to have a whole lot of other options, anyway. She took a breath. “I made a mistake. Let the Marquis trick me. Found myself dancing in the streets, ready to... well, I guess you know what the Marquis does. My friend, he saved me. We ended up running. And hiding. That’s not unusual for us. But him getting carted off by a giant spider.” Clara clutched her stick, and started to get to her feet. The image of the Doctor bound in silk, tucked under Baldor’s leg still hot in her mind. “I need to find him.”

“You thinking of raiding Baldor’s larder?”

“He’d do the same for me.”

Ekkie shook her head sadly. “No one’s ever come out of Baldor’s nest alive.”

“Then we will be the first,” Clara said, determination blooming in her like a drop of ink on tissue paper. Her head was clearer now, and although her body still ached, she didn’t care about that. Nothing else mattered but getting him back. “Will you tell me the way?”

“I’d be sending you to your death,” Ekkie warned.

“I don’t care!” Clara crashed her stick into the floor, her world narrowing to one thing, and one thing alone. Saving the Doctor. “I’m not leaving him to be eaten by giant spiders!” 

Ekkie chuckled. “You’ve got fire in your blood, girl!” She pressed her lips together, nodding her head for a moment or two. Then she seemed to come to a decision. “If you’re off to fight Baldor, you’ll need more than that stick.” 

Ekkie wound her way through the cluttered room, expertly avoiding boxes and buckets and sacks of who-knew-what. Clara followed her back out of the door, and waited impatiently as the old woman fumbled with gnarled hands to open the door of a small vine-smothered outhouse. 

A bright blue bird was nesting in the eves, skittering back and forth with bugs and worms. The morning sun began evaporating the dew from the foliage, and the whole world seemed a different place than it had last night in the terrible darkness. Everything was vivid and alive, the sounds of the forest beyond the garden wall, rustling and chirping, and the stream bubbling in the distance, were as loud as they had been earlier this morning, but Clara found if she tuned into one at a time, they didn’t overwhelm her. It was strange. Perhaps still a side effect from the regeneration energy the Doctor had gifted her with. Perhaps it would wear off. And anyway, this was another reason to save the Doctor; she needed to berate him for using his regeneration energy like that without asking her. But there was something undeniably tender in what he’d done, and she couldn’t really fault him for it. 

Ekkie finally got the door open. Inside, Clara’s eyes adjusted quickly to the dim light. On the wall were two saddles and bridles, but Ekkie ignored those. She held a hand out to Clara. “Come here, child.” She put a hand atop Clara’s head. “Thought so. You’re not much shorter than I was.”  

Ekkie pulled at a cloth covering something in the corner. Clara gasped. A battle coat, a helmet and gloves. And best of all, on a plinth hanging over the suit, a short sword, with a true blade, shining and sharp.

“This was yours?” 

“Do you think I fought the Marquis and his men in a frock?” Ekkie cackled. “My Pa was a blacksmith, and my Aunt Gresweld served in the Fell Wars. She taught me and my sisters to fight before we could lace our shoes.”

Clara laughed out loud, running her hand over the leather brigandine, an armless jacket with metal plates riveted into the torso. Light, movable, but decent protection from fangs and claws. 

Ekkie wrinkled her nose, and then sniffed at the air around Clara. 

“What?” Clara said.

“Give me your hand.” Ekkie took Clara’s proffered hand, turned it over, and began sniffing at the inside of her wrist. “You’re not from around here, are you?“

“No. We were visiting. For the Festival of Lights. I come from...a land very far away.”

“Hmmm. I never was much of a mage, that was my Ma’s thing. I can fix bones and enchant my stove to run through the winter on one pile of logs. But there’s something in you, girl. Part Lagradil, part something else.” Ekkie held onto her hand for a long moment, her misty eyes staring into the distance. “Do you have spell-casters in your family?”

“My step mother’s a bit of a witch. But no. We don’t actually have magic where I come from. Not outside of stories, anyway.”

Ekkie frowned, as if Clara had said something deeply odd. “No magic, eh? How did you get to Lagradil, then?”

“My friend. He has this box. It can travel through...” Clara didn’t finish her sentence, because what was the difference, really, between a bigger-on-the-inside box traveling through space and time, and good old fashioned magic? 

Ekkie sniffed again at Clara’s wrist, and then shrugged.  She turned Clara’s hands back over and gripped them both. “These hands ever held a sword in battle?”

Clara nodded, and then remembering Ekkie could not see she said, “Yes. Yes they have.”

Ekkie grinned. “You have the heart of a warrior. And now you’ll have the clothes of one, too.” 

*

Ekkie and Clara lumped the battle suit into the cottage between them. 

“I dare say it needs a clean,” Ekkie said. “Dashma used to give it the once over when he cleaned the saddles, but it’s been a while.”

Clara had given the leather body armour a good shake while it was outside, letting the dust rise into the morning air in a silver cloud, and the spiders and bugs crawl free. 

Ekkie left Clara with a cloth, cleaning and waxing the leather, while she all but disappeared into a large cupboard alongside the bed-curtain. 

“Here,” she said, passing Clara a bundle of clothes. “I never could bear to part with these. Some folk keep the clothes they were wed in. Well, me and Dashma never did say no vows, but we kept the clothes we wore that day. Him in his finest tunic. Me in my best leather britches and boots under that armour. Oh, hang on.” Ekkie vanished back into the cupboard, and emerged with a dark cloak.  

“Aunt Gresweld brought this back from Nardwin, after the battle of Ranglock. Said she killed three ogres and an elphwick, and stole the cloak from the King of Anglesets that day. But she was prone to exaggeration. Liked a tall tale, did Aunt Gresweld. Still, it’s a fine cloak.”

Clara pinched the fabric soft between her fingers. The cloak was thick and velvety, and had a fur collar and hood, and an ornate silver hasp to clasp cloak shut.

“Thank you. I’ll return it to you. All of it.”

Clara took the clothes Ekkie had given her, and put them on. The britches were supple leather, and surprisingly comfortable, and the knee-length boots gave her a somewhat  piratical look. The almost-white shirt, Ekkie said, had belonged to Dashma, and Clara had to fold the sleeves several times before hauling the brigandine over the top.   

The Doctor’s jacket hung over the back of the chair, and Clara touched it, rubbing her hand down the grimy front, checking for tears. Then she delved in the pocket, and found, of all things, the spiked heel that he’d cracked off her shoe yesterday just outside Lagradil town, so they could run. She choked back a sob. If she hadn’t been trying to make the Doctor jealous, they wouldn’t be in this situation. How could she have been so stupid? With the heel in her hand, Clara tried to take a breath to calm herself, but tears spilled, and she couldn’t stop them. Great. Now she was weepy. Any other after effects? If this was a fraction of what Time Lords felt after regeneration, then they could keep it. 

Ekkie put a hand over hers, still on the back of the chair, the fabric of his coat under her fingers.

“You bring him back here, and I’ll have his coat clean and dry,” Ekkie said, patting her hand softly. 

“I don’t know why I’m crying,” Clara sniffed, wiped her eyes, and tucked the heel into the britches inside pocket. It would be the perfect reminder not to humiliate herself any more than she already had. She just had to focus now. 

“This friend of yours, he means a lot to you.”

“It’s complicated.”

Ekkie laughed, in a dry cackle. “It always is.” 

*

The Doctor’s nose protruded from the silk cocoon. If he squinted, he had a very restricted view of a dark patch of floor, far below, covered in a layer of dust and dirt, with many, many tracks made by spider feet. To his left, was a thick strand of web, and to his right, the same, and although he couldn’t see the full extent of his prison, he guessed he was suspended in a giant web. In a great act of contortion, of which his old friend Harry H would have been proud, he managed to inch his hand upwards towards his top pocket where he’d stashed the sonic screwdriver. He wasn’t sure he had a setting for giant spider silk, but one of the frequencies that worked on natural fabrics would probably disrupt his bindings enough for to get him loose. 

With a final stretch he curled his fingers around the screwdriver’s shaft, found the right setting, turned the power down low, and began dissolving the cocoon. When he’d cleared enough silk aside to see more of his surroundings,  he realised that he was indeed pinioned in a huge web, inside a gloomy cavern or cave, and that he wasn’t the only victim in this giant larder. Several other cocoons hung nearby. Whether they contained human or animal, dead or alive, he had no clue, for none moved. Once he freed an arm, he tested the nearby web. It was the thickness of hemp rope, and ran upwards to a point anchored on a small ledge, and had enough give to make it slightly bouncy. It would probably take his weight, if he could fully free himself. After a few minutes more wiggling, he worked an arm free, and from there it wasn’t too difficult to wrench away the remaining silk binding his body. 

He moved one foot along the web, and reached up full stretch to grip a strand above his head, and by this method, he moved awkwardly, hand over hand towards the ledge. 

The web offered fewer strands to grasp the closer he got to its anchor point, and to reach the ledge the Doctor had to swing back and forth. The ledge was narrow, but above it, light streamed in, dust motes floating and dancing in the golden stream of sun. A way out! The Doctor swung backwards, and leapt towards the rock face. With a scrambling rush, he slammed into the rock and hauled himself into the ledge.

He sat dazed, for a moment, but free. He’d climb out, backtrack through the forest and find Clara. Then they could find the TARDIS and off this planet. First things first, though, he had to get out of here before Mamma spider came back to check on lunch. 

There was a scuttling below him, and a scraping up the rockface. He leapt to his feet, but the tips of two black front legs were already visible on the ledge. He pressed back to the wall. There was nowhere to go.  

“Ah, hello,” he said, experimentally. Did he speak spider? He edged away from the bulbous, squat torso, hauling itself up onto the ledge. “You really don’t want to eat me. I’m rather fun to talk to—”

Fangs flashed. A sharp spike in his thigh, deep and painful. Venom flooding his veins. The world pulsed and blurred, and he was jerked upside down. His sonic screwdriver tumbled from his pocket, and once again, before blackness took him, the Doctor found himself shrouded in silk.  

*

At Ekkie’s bidding, Clara cleaned off the layer of goose fat that had protected the short sword while in storage, and then added a layer of oil to the blade. She weighed the sword first in one hand, and then the other, and then slid it into its sheath.

“Now, there should be a jar atop those shelves. Earthenware, with a chip in the rim. Do you see it?”

Clara could see it, nestled between an old oil lamp and a pile of books. She supposed Ekkie had use for neither, these days.  

“Fetch it down,” the old lady commanded. 

Clara did so, and the jar rattled with coins. She passed it to Ekkie. 

“Now. I want you to take two gold pieces.”

“Ekkie, I can’t take your money!”

“No arguing. You take these to Phar Lambre at The Wayfarer. Tell him Ekkie sent you, and he’s to lend you two horses. Two days should do it. Long enough for you to get your man, and bring him back here.”

Clara began to object, but Ekkie held up a hand.  “You’ll not make it to the nest and back before dark, elseways,” she said firmly. “You don’t want to be out in the forest at night.”

Clara could hardly argue with that. Ekkie described the route in detail, the road to The Wayfarer, and then the twisting forest tracks she would have to take to reach Great Nest. Clara drew a rudimentary map on blank pages torn from a handwritten cookery book. Ekkie packed Clara bread and a flagon of water, gave her three copper coins, for luck, and with her gnarled hands, fastened the silver broach on her cloak.

“’Tis a fine cloak for a quest. Wish I could journey with you, Clara Oswald. “Many a day Dashma and me peeked down at Great Nest from back ‘o Snuffkin. We travelled far and wide.”

“You must miss it.”

Ekkie shrugged. “They were good days.” 

On the doorstep of the cottage, Clara hugged Ekkie. 

“How do you feel, girl?”

“Strange. I’m not scared. I should be, but I’m not.” Clara felt lean, focused. Her ears were sharp, her eyes clear. She was ready for anything. Not in the frenzied way she had been yesterday, when everything went dizzyingly fast, but somehow she felt  _ more _ . 

“You’ve got a warrior's heart, alright,” said Ekkie, “but fear’s not a bad thing. It keeps you sharp.”

“I know,” Clara agreed. And she did know: fear is a superpower, but she also knew her own power. She felt it deep in her bones. Perhaps it was Ekkie’s clothes, the smell of the stiff leather battle vest, the cold steel in the scabbard at her hip, or the magnificent cloak swirling at her back. Perhaps, whatever the Doctor had done to her while she slept in the cave still lingered. Or maybe, this was her time. Everything she’d learned, everything she’d done had lead her to this moment. This was her mission, her chance to be bold and shine. Whatever it was, she was ready. On this day, in this land, Clara Oswald was a warrior.


	4. We are Not your Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara travels to Great Nest to save the Doctor from the giant spider's lair.

As The Wayfarer came into view, Clara quickened her pace, and her pack, containing the helmet and gauntlets, jolted reassuringly against her shoulders. An old sign on a tall post declaring the inn’s name swung back and forth in the late morning breeze.

In the hour’s walk from Ekkie’s cottage, first along forest tracks, and then on the dusty road, she’d not passed a single soul, and at first glance the inn also appeared deserted. The misty diamond-shaped panels of glass in the leaded windows on the ground floor brokered no glimpse inside, and the upstairs curtains remained drawn. An imposing heavy oak door was firmly shut. Clara gripped the circular iron door loop, twisted, and gave a hefty shove. 

She stepped into darkness, but her eyes easily picked out two Dwarves, tankards frozen halfway to their bearded lips, turning to stare. They exchanged glances, and said not a word. Clara took a second to process: Dwarves, chainmail, beards, and pickaxes, and then she strode to the bar. A tall, thin framed man, with the beginnings of a pot belly hanging over his belt and a misshapen, lumpy nose, put down his cloth. 

His eyes flitted to the silver clasp of Clara’s cloak, and then down to the sword at her hip.

“I don’t want no trouble, Ma’am,” he said.

“I don’t intend to make any.” Leaning forwards, Clara slid Ekkie’s gold coins across the bar. “Ekkie sent me. She told me to ask for Phar Lambre. Said he’d see me right for two horses for a couple of days.”

“Ekkie sent you, eh?”

Clara nodded. Tankards clanged on the table, and Clara sensed Dwarf eyes on her back. Almost involuntarily, her hand shifted towards her sword. 

But the barkeep was smiling. “Ekkie delivered my twins. Made it here in the worst storm of the worst winter in years.” He wiped his hands on his apron, and thrust his hand towards Clara. “Phar Lambre at your service. Any friend of Ekkie’s is welcome at The Wayfarer.” He picked up the gold coins, which vanished into the folds of his apron. 

“I need to leave as soon as possible,” Clara said. 

Phar picked up a brass horn which hung on the wall like an old fashioned telephone, and bellowed, “Waylor! Hetty!”

Seconds later, a girl with wiry ginger hair appeared from the back room. “Da, what’s the point of us having this talker-phone, if you yell so loud we can hear you anyway?”

Phar looked a bit sheepish. “I’m still gettin’ used to this new gadget. Where’s your brother?”

“Helping Ma cook.”

“Alright. Fetch him, I need you to bring Firebrand and Poppy in and tack them up. Lady here needs to leave right away.” 

Hetty noticed Clara for the first time, and her eyes widened. She fell into a small curtsy. “Of course. This way, Ma’am.”

Clara turned to follow, but found her way blocked by one of the Dwarves.  

“In a hurry, are we?” the Dwarf said. While Clara’s brain was still digesting  _ actual Dwarves _ , he, or she, it was genuinely impossible to tell, stood with their arms crossed, deep-set eyes searching her face. “Don’t believe we’ve ‘ad the pleasure. I’m Dorrin. This is my cousin, Gorrin.”

Suspicion itched the back of Clara’s neck. They hadn’t taken their eyes off her since the moment she walked in. Why were they so interested? 

Her hand twitched again, and she had to make a conscious effort not to move it closer to her sword. The last thing she needed was to get into a bar fight with a pair of Dwarves.

“What’s your name?” Gorrin demanded.

Thinking fast, she blurted out the first thing that came into her head. “Snow White. Can’t stop, I’ve got a date with Firebrand.” Clara dodged around Dorrin, who let out a rumbling growl, and hurried after Hetty.

“Think that’s funny, do you?” Dorrin snarled at her back.

“As a matter of fact,” she muttered under her breath, “I do.” She wished the Doctor was here to share the joke, to raise an eyebrow at her cleverness, or add a sharp comeback of his own. A wave of trepidation hit her. This world was as strange as any alien civilisation they’d ever visited. She desperately hoped he was safe.  _ Hang on, Doctor. I’m coming for you. _

*

The Doctor was hanging by his feet. At least he seemed to be. It was hard to tell with his head pounding like a galactic freight tanker was dropping out of hyperspace behind his eyes.  

He had no idea how long had passed since he’d made it to the ledge. He heard sounds around him, muffled squeals and snorts from elsewhere in the cavern, and the faint hiss he recognised as the giant spider, perhaps hanging fresher victims in the larder. Did that move  _ him  _ higher up the menu? He began the laborious process of wiggling his nose back and forth again to poke through the silk covering his face. 

*

Hetty handed Clara Firebrand’s reins. It had been a few years since Clara had ridden regularly. She’d learned to ride after her mother died. It had helped, having something else to focus on during those dark days. Firebrand was a pure chestnut, with a small white star on his forehead, red-golden mane rippling as he flicked his head up, nostrils flaring. Clara put a hand on his nose. She closed her eyes, and sent a wave of calm towards him. 

“Hush,” she whispered. His breath was hot on her hand, but he stopped throwing his head. Clara ran her hand down his shoulder, and firmly picked up his front leg to inspect his foot. He was newly shod, his shoes barely worn. She repeated the process for his other feet. Satisfied, Clara let his last foot down. 

“He’s a bit of a handful,” Hetty said.

But Clara liked him already. His coat was the colour of red sand, and he had spirit. “I think Firebrand and I are going to get along just fine.”  

Clara put Ekkie’s metal helmet on, checked Firebrand’s girth one last time, and finding the saddle suitably tight, she lifted a foot into the stirrup and mounted, swinging her sword carefully over the saddle. She’d never been on horseback with a sword before. Adrenaline buzzed through her, zinging through her veins and flaming her heart. Firebrand coiled under her, pulling at the bit, ready to go. 

Waylor, who was a head shorter than his twin sister, but had the same fiery hair, knotted Poppy’s reins to the saddle, and handed Clara a lead-rope. He hadn’t taken his eyes off Clara since he’d come out. His sister stomped on his toe and hissed, “Stop staring.”

“Where are you going, Ma’am?” Waylor asked, his eyes darting to the silver clasp on her cloak.

“To find my friend. I’ll be back in two days.” Clara urged the horses forwards and out of the yard. 

Huddled by the stables, Dorrin and Gorrin watched her leave, but Clara paid them little heed. Who cared what a couple of grumpy long-beards thought of her? This was freedom! Firebrand moved under her like a dream, powerful, ready to fly if she gave him his head. The road ahead was clear as far as she could see, and the ground good, so Clara urged Firebrand into a canter, Poppy at her side, her cloak flapping in the wind behind her. 

*

Dorrin watched the woman ride out on Phar’s best horse. Snow White indeed. There was something familiar about her face, and those eyes in particular.  

“What do you reckon?” he said to Gorrin. “Could it be her?” 

Gorrin stroked his beard. “Could be,” he replied in a low voice, with a wary eye on Hetty and Waylor, who were also watching the woman ride out. “When we get back to Lagradil town, we’ll know for sure.” There were posters all over, hung on lamp posts and pinned to tavern doors, picturing a woman called simply ‘Clara’, offering a reward of ten gold pieces for her capture. 

Dorrin never forgot a face. He turned to Gorrin. “Back in two days, she said.” 

Gorrin grinned, revealing one front incisor made of pure gold. “More than enough time, cousin.”   

*

Clara brought Firebrand and Poppy to a halt in a clearing at the edge of the trees. She’d let Firebrand have his head for a while, just to get the feel of him, and discovered he could easily outpace Poppy if he needed to. She’d drawn them both in, and settled into a brisk trot most of the way, as she needed them both fresh when they came to leave Great Nest.  

Now, she took the map she’d made at Ekkie’s out of her pouch. This was it, the cavern where the spider Baldor had made her nest. It was probably mid afternoon by now, with the sun past its zenith. An aching hunger in her belly, Clara dismounted, found a low branch to tether the horses, and took a swig of water and a few quick bites of bread. The ride back to Ekkie’s would be more than an hour, and she needed to be back before dark. 

Clara paused at the cave’s mouth and drew her sword, her blood pulsing in her ears, her eyes sharp. The cool metal in her fist felt good, better than it had any right to, she supposed, in the hand of a twenty century school teacher from the east end of London. But, of course she wasn’t  _ just _ that. She was a citizen of the universe now, a time traveller. She’d faced down Daleks. Battled an Ice Warrior on a submarine. Met Robin Hood. She didn’t know, exactly, when the Doctor stopped being her hobby and became essential to her world, but right now her friend, the man who’d given her planets and adventures and such a big, amazing life, he was in grave danger. If she knew one thing, it was that she would rescue the Doctor today, or die trying. 

*

The Doctor had successfully wiggled his nose out of the cocoon for the second time that day, and earned a limited view of the chamber. He was indeed hanging upside down. If he swung to the left he saw new cocoons lower on the web, quite small, and some of them wiggling like he was. A spider, not quite as large as the one that had brought him here, but at least as big as a Saint Bernard, was busy threading another live package into the web. From the cocoon, a long, thin tail shuddered and thrashed, but the spider paid no heed, spinning a length of silk and attaching the package to the web.

Footsteps echoed into the chamber. The Doctor craned to see, but it was hard to focus, the motion didn’t help the nausea that was gripping him, from the spider bite or swinging upside down, he didn’t know. He caught glimpses of a black cloak and metal helmet, and then as he swung back, a sword. Whoever it was, they were pretty damn reckless, slashing at the spider with a wide swing. The beast let out a hiss and turned on the newcomer. 

“Great. Call Mama spider, why don’t you?” the Doctor grumbled, thrusting his legs as hard as he could back and forth inside the cocoon and ramming his hands outwards as hard as he could. 

Below, the cloak-wearer leapt onto a nearby rock, sword close to their chest. The spider spat lines of silk, but in one mighty jump, with one foot resting momentarily on the spider’s back, the warrior cleared the creature and rolled to the floor. Before it could turn, the warrior’s sword plunged deep into its black body. 

The Doctor blinked in surprise, mixed with admiration, and not a little confusion. The warrior looked up, sword still in her hand, and met his eyes. 

His hearts lurched in a crazy kind of tango, his head still rushing.  “Clara?”

Clara grinned and sheathed her sword. She stooped to pick something up off the ground, and then climbed up the rock she’d leapt from, and swung onto the web. Clara scaled with web with ease, and when she was balanced close by his side, she dissected his cocoon with her sword, not leaving a mark on him. He swung himself carefully over, until his feet hit the web. For once in his long lives, he found himself momentarily speechless. 

“You’ll be wanting this?” she said, grinning. 

It was his sonic screwdriver. “Thank you. You. Um.” She blurred in front of his eyes. Biting back the urge to hug her, he realised her eyes were not on him. She was scanning the floor, looking for a way down over the web, and the exit.  

“Are you hurt?” she asked.

“No. I’m fine,” he lied. 

She did look at him then. “You look terrible. Can you walk?”

“I think so. Just a little spider-y bite. It’s nothing.”

“We better hurry. Baldor will be back any minute.”

“Baldor?” The word was thick on the Doctor’s tongue. The world blurred, and he felt himself sliding. He snapped back upright. 

“The big one. Come on,” Clara urged. “If we follow this strand to the edge, and then swing down the way I came up?” The Doctor stuffed his screwdriver in his top pocket, and began to follow Clara across the web. 

His arms felt heavy, and his thigh stabbed with deep, wracking pain where Baldor’s fangs had sunk into him. While he had been still, his system had contained the worst effects of the venom, but now he was moving the deadly stuff began pumping around his body. What would kill a human might not do him in straight away, but he’d never dealt with a toxin like this before. A bitter taste rose in his throat. The web in front of him seemed to quiver.

Clara’s hand covered his, and guided him on. Her voice was a beacon. The next thing he knew his feet hit the floor, but immediately buckled, sending him down hard, first to his knees, and then onto his side. 

Clara crouched beside him. “Doctor?” she touched his face, and he looked up at her, beautiful, brave Clara. His Clara. 

She was talking. “I’ve got horses outside. But you’re going to have to help me. You need to stand up.”

He nodded, pulling himself to a sitting position. She got her hand around his waist.

“Spiders,” he mumbled.

“I know. I hate them.”

“No,  _ spiders,”  _ he said, pointing.

Lots of them. Swarming down from the web, appearing from cracks in the wall, until the ground behind them was a writhing mass of black legs. 

An idea formed in the Doctor’s brain. He fumbled for his top pocket. 

“What do you need?” Clara asked.

“Screwdriver.”

Clara thrust her hand in his chest pocket. “Now what?”

“Aim it at the other cocoons. A wide sweep.”

Clara did as he asked, and in moments the cocoons in the web dissolved. A rainstorm of half-dessicated small creatures, and some still alive, was released into the cave. He and Clara scrambled to their feet, and began backing away.

“Aim at the anchor points on the wall!” the Doctor yelled, above the hissing and squealing. In seconds the whole web fell like a curtain, the sticky strands collapsing as one, covering the floor. 

Clara and the Doctor bolted towards the cave’s mouth. Behind them, the baby spiders fell at the escaped contents of their larder on masse, the whole floor erupting with the sounds of spider hunters and their prey. 

The Doctor grasped Clara’s hand. Clara, who now had a sword to match her bold heart. He liked it. Through his addled mind he had a vague sensation that he probably  _ shouldn’t _ .  

The bright light at the front of the cave made him pause and squint, but Clara urged him on. His thigh was pulsing now, hard and painful, but he pushed on.  _ Horses _ . He could see two horses, maybe four, but probably two, by some blurry trees.

He stopped for a moment, his body fighting to expel the toxins that were invading his nervous system. He heard Clara swear.

“Doctor, get the horses,” she said, moving away from him, unsheathing her sword.

*

Clara watched the Doctor long enough to be sure he could stay upright, and that he’d heard her instructions about the horses. Then she turned back towards the cave.

There, in the cave’s mouth, sat Baldor, her huge black body squat and terrible, eight coal-black eyes across her forehead, her legs tap, tapping on the forest floor in a furious display, her fangs, that had bitten the Doctor, vicious with venom.

Clara held her ground, and held her sword. “This time, I’ve got more than a pointy stick,” she growled. “I don’t know if you can understand me, but you’ve got  _ plenty _ of food. Leave us alone.”

In answer, Baldor raised her front legs and swiped at Clara. 

Clara dodged, and sprinted across the clearing, hoping to draw the creature away from the Doctor and the horses.

Baldor swivelled on the spot in a grotesque spider dance, her long black legs shifting in a blur. Clara backed away, her chest tight with revulsion. She’d never seen seen anything so familiar and yet monstrous. This wasn’t alien. This was the spider in her bathtub magnified a thousand times. The spider’s middle two eyes were each as big as dinner plates, shining black smeared with blue and green, like oil on water. The eyes further out were smaller, but just as horrible. Every muscle in her body wanted to run, to turn away from the terrifying vision and flee. _Do that, and it’s game_ _over_. The spider pounced. Clara hit the ground and rolled, a sickening glimpse of hairy black abdomen flashing overhead as the spider passed above. Breathing hard, she leapt to her feet turning to face the spider, sword in hand.

Baldor lept forward and shot a strand of silk at Clara’s legs. Clara jumped straight up, landed on top of the silk for a second, and then slashed it with her sword. Baldor continued forward. Clara backed away from Baldor’s short front legs, that snapped in a grasping motion, intending to snatch Clara and clasp her to those terrible, snapping jaws. Clara stumbled, and crashed back into a tree, the spider so close she could see every hair on its head quivering. 

Baldor struck, fangs plunging forward. Clara threw herself to one side. The spider screeched as her fangs hit wood, splintering the bark which fell in shards on Clara’s helmet.

Clara regained her feet, rushed forward and struck with her sword, slashing at the spider’s front legs. She missed on the upstroke, but when she brought her blade crashing down, it sank deep into Baldor’s leg.

Reeling from the impact, Clara jerked her sword free from the spider’s wounded leg. Surely the creature would retreat? But the spider spat more silk, in a vengeful fury.

Clara turned to face Baldor again, her own fury rising in her like a storm. “Get back in your cave!” she roared. “We’re not your bloody dinner!”

Baldor’s fangs flashed, her jaw opening and closing, her legs tense, ready. This time, as Baldor sprung, Clara raised her sword, and instead of rolling like before, she slid down to her knees, skidding over the ground, her blade high above her head. The spider screeched in agony as Clara’s blade sliced her soft abdomen.

Clara leapt to her feet and spun full around. The spider, its guts spilled, legs waving feebly, lay on the ground between her and the Doctor. He was leaning heavily on Poppy, but had both horses untied. Clara dashed around the dying spider’s twitching legs, and ran to him. 

He hugged her, pulling her desperately close, without speaking at all. She trembled in his arms, letting herself look once at the spider’s body, and then turning back to him.

“Can you ride?” she asked, breathless. 

He nodded, and she took Firebrand’s reins. He managed to mount Poppy, but his eyes looked glazed, and his skin grey.  

Firebrand was snorting and pawing the ground, and by the time Clara managed to mount, the Doctor had slumped forward on Poppy’s neck. 

“Hold on!” Clara yelled, urging the frightened horses forward. They raced from the clearing. Clara chanced one final look back at the twitching spider, and then focused her attention on riding.

After a few breathless minutes, Clara slowed the horses. The Doctor swayed in the saddle, his eyes rolling back in his head. The open wound on his leg wasn’t bleeding, but God knew what the spider venom was doing to him. 

   “Hey,” Clara prodded him urgently. “Don’t fall asleep. And don’t regenerate.” A sudden fear crashed over her, more terrifying than anything she had faced on Lagradil so far. “Oh God, you’re not going to regenerate, are you?” 

He raised his head. “No. A little nap should do me fine.”

“Alright,” Clara said, taking deep breath. “I know just the place. My friend’s cottage is not too far. Just stay awake until we get there.”

“You have friends here?” he mumbled, with a weak grin, but the colour was draining from his face. 

“Of course,” Clara said, trembling. “What do you think I was doing while you were hanging around?”

Sweat began beading on his forehead. Clara forced a grin back at him, resolving stay business like and calm, even though what she really wanted to do was dissolve. She had to get him back to Ekkie. Ekkie would know what to do. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, no more spiders, I promise! However, I can't promise there won't be more danger in this strange land. Clara is just coming into her power, and the Doctor is falling more in love with her every day. 
> 
> This story will probably be updated weekly from now on. I've got lots of ideas for super!Clara and 12. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and all your comments, they make me so happy! :) X


	5. Forget About the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor's been bitten by the giant spider, Baldor. Clara and Ekkie take care of him. Clara has a bit of soul searching to do.

Firebrand and Poppy were unsettled and skittish after the battle with Baldor, and seemed desperate to put the cavern behind them. Clara didn’t blame them. She was pretty keen to be as far away as possible herself. With Firebrand snorting and shaking his head, and the Doctor contributing little to the control of his horse, it took all Clara’s strength to handle both horses. As the afternoon wore on the light turned golden: the bright spears of sunlight still penetrating the dense canopy only served to deepen the shadows.     

To make matters worse, the Doctor’s skin was pallid grey, and his head rocked back and forth with each step Poppy took. The sun was inching its way down far too rapidly for Clara’s liking, but much as she longed to be back in Ekkie’s warm cottage, she dare not push the horses into a trot for fear the Doctor wouldn’t hold his seat. He spoke little which disturbed Clara as much as his drained complexion. He was so rarely lost for words. His Scottish brogue had become her secret pleasure; even when he spouted barely comprehensible techno-babble it still gave her a sly thrill. When she’d said his accent was enough, she was only half joking.       

“Talk to me, Doctor,” she said, needing to hear his voice on the lonely road, “where will you take me next? When we get back to the TARDIS?” She injected a cheery note into her voice, hoping it would lift his spirits or at least keep him awake. 

He raised his head but his eyes were elsewhere, glassy and glazed, focused on some distant spot beyond Clara’s reach. “Somewhere the sky’s made of dreams,” he said, “and the rivers burn and the oceans weep. Cities made of song...” His voice faded, and his head dropped forward again.

“That sounds nice,” Clara said, with forced brightness. “I’d love to see that.” 

“The tea’s getting cold.” He looked up at her, his eyes distant, confused, and immeasurably sad. “Is that you, Ace?” 

Clara bit her lip. “It’s Clara.”

“I’ll drop you off in Perivale. No. You’d hate that. Croydon?” The Doctor’s head jerked up and he began talking faster. “I met a Zygon who looked just like you once. Very pretty. A bit thick, though, because Clara tricked her into sending me a message.”

“ _ I’m _ Clara. Wait, you think I’m pretty?”

“Why are we going like snails?” the Doctor suddenly cried out, booting poor Poppy into a surprised canter. The lead-rope jerked from Clara’s grip, and elbows flapping, he shot off down the track. “Come on! We’ve got to get to Clara’s friend’s house!” he yelled, turning a bend in the forest track and vanishing from sight.  

“Doctor!” Clara heeled Firebrand and gave chase.

When Clara caught up with Poppy, the Doctor was wild eyed, turning the horse in circles. “I know you! Barmaid. Governess. You kissed me on the stairs, and then died!”

“What!” Clara exclaimed. She dismounted and approached Poppy, all the time talking in a low voice to try to calm the wide-eyed horse. Firebrand snorted too, egged on by Poppy’s agitated state. 

Clara snatched for the lead rope, swinging wildly by Poppy’s feet, while still holding Firebrand’s reins. “Whoa. Hey there,” she soothed Poppy.  As she gripped the rope there was a terrible moment when she feared being stretched, suspended between two frightened horses. But the Doctor fell silent and still, and as he calmed, so did his horse. Clara realised he was looking down at her intensely. 

“Clara Oswald,” he said, leaning towards her, “I mean this most sincerely. I absolutely, definitely think that there is nothing funny about your nose. Whatsoever.”

With that, he slumped forward over Poppy’s neck. 

“Doctor!” Clara shook his shin to rouse him. 

“Ow.”  

The leg she’d touched bore deep puncture wounds further up his thigh, and the creeping venom was, Clara suspected, the cause of his erratic behaviour. Should she try to deal with it now? She had nothing to treat it with. With a sickening nervousness, she decided it would be best to press on and hope Ekkie could help.

“I’m sorry. But you have to stay awake. We need to make it to Ekkie’s. Can you do that?” 

He nodded. “Of course. Sleep is for turtles. Or tourists.”

On they went, with the night closing in. This morning’s journey had passed quickly but now each mile stretched out painfully. Clara felt it would never end.

When they finally reached Ekkie’s garden, the daylight was almost gone, and the Doctor had slipped into cold silence once more. 

Clara quickly tied the horses to the gate. “Ekkie!” she called. Her relief that they had made it through the forest was suddenly swamped by an irrational fear the old woman would be gone.

The Doctor looked up and smiled, as if seeing her for the first time in a while. For a moment his gaze seemed clear. “Clara?” Then he shook his head. “I’m the Doctor. Run for your life.”

“No more running today, Doctor,” Clara said firmly, removing his feet from the stirrups. “You’re getting off this horse and coming with me.”

“Yes boss.” He grinned and promptly slithered off the horse and tumbled to the floor.

Ekkie appeared at the gate, Scruff at her heels. 

Clara explained in a low voice. “Baldor bit him. He’s delirious.” 

Looking back, Clara never understood how she and a hobbling blind woman maneuvered six foot of uncooperative Time Lord to the bed in Ekkie’s small cottage and removed his boots and trousers, but they managed it somehow. 

He was mercifully silent by the time they attempted that last operation. He’d objected pretty strongly to Clara removing his boots. She felt sure he’d have something to say about her hands on his belt buckle, but by then he’d slipped into a fevered sleep, and besides, his wound was in desperate need of treatment, so he didn’t get a vote.

“It looks pretty bad,” Clara told Ekkie. Two deep puncture wounds in his thigh oozed with stinking green pus, and the veins on his inner thigh ran dark. 

“Ack, I thought that might happen. I’ve made up a poultice. Clean the wound first, and then apply this.” She handed Clara a mortar containing a dark green, foul-smelling sludge. 

Clara took off her helmet and brigandine. She paused as she unbuckled her sword belt. She’d done it. If someone had told her two days ago she would be battling a giant spider with a borrowed sword then she would have thought them mad. Perhaps  _ she  _ was the mad one and this was some kind of supercharged dream. If it was, though, she rather liked it. She’d never felt stronger in her life. 

Scruff gave a low growl at the sword. Clara quickly stowed it away under the bed. The dog could probably smell spider guts. With that delightful thought in mind, Clara washed her hands and then turned her attention back to the Doctor. 

Ekkie had put the back of her hand against the Doctor’s forehead. “Don’t like the feel of that. He’s way too hot.” 

“He’s... He’s tough,” Clara said, as she cleaned the wound. “More than tough. He’s not like me. I mean, he looks like me, but his people, they’re a powerful race. He can survive things that would kill you or I.” She desperately hoped it was true. It had to be, didn’t it? Ekkie’s balm. His alien biology. It would all come good and he would recover. For a moment, a thought too terrible to contemplate lingered in her mind. What if he changed? She didn’t think she could stand losing him again. It had been terrible the first time, but the thought of mourning him twice left her with a void in her soul. Clara bit her lip, chewing back a tide of apprehension. How did they stand it-- the constant death and rebirth, rearranging the cells in their bodies and starting again? It was hard enough getting used to a new curriculum at school. How did Time Lords adjust to living in a new skin? Clara applied the poultice, ladling the green gunk onto the Doctor’s leg. He twitched and groaned as she did so. 

Everything that had happened over the past few days crashed in on her now, waves of emotion threatening to swamp her. The Marquis. The night of running in the forest, terrifying and exhilarating. The flying and falling, and today’s fight with the spider. She tried to choke it back, but her feelings hit her full force, rushing in waves without mercy. Clara gasped and couldn’t stop her tears.

Seeming to sense her distress, the Doctor groaned, his face contorted in pain, his brow beading with sweat.  

Ekkie squeezed Clara’s hand. “It’s alright. The poultice will draw the venom.”

“I’m sorry.” Clara wiped her hand over her face, cross with herself for letting this spill out. 

“Nothing to be sorry about.” 

“I bet you didn’t cry the day you fought the Marquis.”

Ekkie laughed softly. “Maybe not that day. But there were plenty of times I did. There’s no shame in tears.” 

But shame  _ was _ bubbling inside Clara, hot and angry and unrelenting. Not shame for  her tears, as such. In her time, she’d comforted enough stressed-out students, not to mention teachers hiding out in the staff loos, saying the very same thing herself. But something else sat heavy in her chest, and had been since the Doctor took her hand back at the Lagradil town square and jerked her out of her drugged state. 

“It’s just,” she sniffed, “the trouble with the Marquis was  _ my _ fault. I only asked the Marquis to dance to get the Doctor’s attention.” Clara shook her head. “To make him jealous.” There it was, her truth. It wasn’t pretty.

“You couldn’t have just asked, then?” said Ekkie mildly.

Clara laughed aloud. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? I killed a giant spider. But no, I was too scared to ask him to dance. How cowardly is that?”

“It’s one thing to face monsters. Facing our feelings? That’s a harder thing altogether.” 

Clara sniffed again and swiped her tears away. What Ekkie said was true. She’d have to face this, one day. They both would. She straightened her back, pulling her body upright out of the slouch she’d slipped into. “I’m alright.”

“Course you are,” Ekkie said kindly. “But you’re sore and bone weary, and worried about this man of yours. Look, love, you better bring the horses in the garden. Put their saddles and bridles in the outhouse. Before it get’s proper dark.” Ekkie spoke gently, as if she could feel Clara’s pain, but also knew there were jobs to be done. “I’ll be here with him. And I’ll fix supper. You must be starved.”

When Clara stopped to think on it, she  _ was _ ravenous. “Thank you. You’ve been so kind.” 

Clara sorted the horses in a blur, letting them roam loose in Ekkie’s big garden. She fixed the gate firmly with some rope she found in the outhouse.

“Look, you two,” she told the horses. “We’re guests here. Try not to do too much damage?” Poppy lifted her head for a moment, and then returned to exploring the patch of rough grass in the center of the garden. Firebrand gave a low snort, but didn’t stop grazing.  

When Clara returned to the cottage, Ekkie had a stew in the pot over the stove and a mug of hot tea waiting. Clara maneuvered one of the room’s two chairs closer to the bed, and sat near to the Doctor, cooling him with a damp flannel to his forehead, and taking restless sips of her tea. 

“He was calling your name, while you were out.”

“Was he?” Clara put down her mug and gripped his hand. It was cool to the touch, his long fingers stiff and grey in the pale light of Ekkie’s cottage, and yet his forehead was still beading with sweat.  

“He said, ‘do you think I care for you so little’ or some such thing.”

The words sliced Clara like a knife. With hundreds of happier memories to choose from, why would the time she’d betrayed him float to the surface?

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. Impulsively she raised his hand and kissed it. “I’m so sorry.” 

Clara felt Ekkie’s hand on her shoulder. She looked up at the old woman’s weathered face. “I betrayed him. Well, I thought that’s what I was doing, and that was the point. Why is he thinking of that now?”

“Hard to say. Must matter to him.”

“Not my finest hour,” Clara said, hating herself all over again for what she’d done after Danny died. Hurling every last TARDIS key into a volcano --or so she’d thought -- to force the Doctor to help her. A terrible thing to do. Grief was no excuse. 

Clara held his hand between both of her own. She wanted him to think of her as the warrior who’d saved him from the spider’s nest. Not that wild-eyed woman who let her worst emotions drive her. Who stole and threatened and lied. “I did a terrible thing,” she whispered. A hollow feeling took hold in her chest.

“And what did he do? When you betrayed him?”

“He forgave me.” The words spilled from Clara in a rush. “I betrayed him and he helped me anyway.” 

“Ah. Sounds like love to me.”  

Clara sighed. “He cares for me. I know he does. But just not like  _ that _ .”

“Are you sure?”

Clara sighed. “It’s hard to explain. He couldn’t stand to see me hurt. He used his...well, it’s a sort of magic, I suppose, to heal me. Only, it had a weird effect on me. I got a bit worked up, and tried to kiss him. I wouldn’t have if I’d been thinking straight. He made it very clear he didn’t want that. So yeah, I’m pretty sure.” 

Ekkie pursed her lips. “Complicated, eh?” 

“Just a bit.” Clara felt the Doctor’s forehead again.  It was beginning to cool. He seemed to be resting more peacefully now, his breathing slowing down and even.

Ekkie hobbled her way back to the stove. The old woman moved methodically, using her fingers to pinpoint the position of the bowls, and then adeptly ladling stew into them. Clara marvelled at her skill in managing without sight. It wasn’t magic. It was  _ practice _ . The stew smelled delicious, and it reaffirmed to Clara just how hungry she was.

“Here.” The old lady held out a bowl.

“Thank you. You’ve been so kind. I don’t know how we can ever repay you.”

“Ack, it’s nothing.”

“No, really, what you’ve done is far from nothing. Those gold pieces, for a start.”

“I’m an old woman. No children. What good are gold pieces in a jar on my shelf?” 

“But still.”

“Well, if you insist, you can wash up,” Ekkie said with a grin. “But I’m more interested in what happened in the cave.”

Clara shuddered. “It was dark. The biggest web I’ve ever seen. And there were hundreds of little spiders.” 

Clara recounted the rescue, all the time a tiny bit amazed that she’d done it.  _ I Killed a giant spider. Me. Clara Oswald. English Teacher. I stepped into Lord of the Rings! _ In all honesty, she’d felt powerful, and nowhere near as afraid as she should have been. Perhaps traveling with the Doctor did that to people. Grew their courage. Perhaps, to save someone you love, you really do grow wings, because there had been times outside that cave that Clara almost felt she was flying. 

“Baldor, does she live?” Ekkie asked, jolting Clara back to reality.

Clara pulled a face. All things considered, she didn’t feel one hundred percent good about killing the creature. She always made a point of carefully removing spiders from her home without harming them. But this spider was as big as a car and had been trying to eat them. Her humane tendencies only went so far.

“Baldor chased us, after I got the Doctor out. I  _ had _ to kill her…” 

“There’s plenty around here will thank you for it. That beast takes fell-calfs and steals folk’s hens. She even took a pony once, from up on the moor. So there’ll be no tears in Brevnick that she’s gone.”

Clara nodded, feeling a bit better about the whole slicing-the-spider’s-guts episode. “Consider it a public service, then.”

After they had eaten, Clara found an old lamp that had probably not been lit for an age, covered in dust. She blew it off out of the open door, and coaxed it back to life, spreading an orange glow through Ekkie’s small cottage. She followed Ekkie’s instructions about washing up, and what went where. The old lady had a system. The mugs went to the left of the large pot of tea bags, which was beside the breadbin. The kettle sat always on the small AGA-like stove, which Ekkie lit with a flick of her finger to make them both a bedtime drink.

“How did you  _ do  _ that?”

“Just a wee sprite of a spell,” she said casually. “I’m no mage.”

Clara raised her eyebrows at that. The glow at the end of the old lady’s finger leaping to the stove seemed pretty impressive to her. 

Scruff whined, shoved at his food bowl with his nose, and then looked up at Ekkie with irresistible brown eyes.

“Oh, Scruff,” Ekkie said. “Did we forget you?”  As Ekkie filled his bowl from a bag of biscuits in the larder, and then poured the last of the stew over them, the little dog yelped with excitement, tail wagging furiously. 

“You’ll want to be cleaning the sword,” Ekkie prompted. 

“Oh, of course.” Clara retrieved the sword from under the bed. She’d wiped it before re-sheathing it, but the silver blade needed a thorough clean. In the lamp’s orange glow, Clara cleaned and oiled the blade that had killed Baldor. It was a perfect weight in her hand, shining and sharp. It had felt so natural, like she’d been born to it. She hadn’t even needed to think. “This sword,” she said to Ekkie, but she didn’t really know what she wanted to say. It was more of a  _ feeling _ a sense of connection, impossible to put into words.

“My Pa made it for me when I was twelve. He mostly shod horses by those days, but he’d made hundreds of swords during the Fell Wars. Aunt Gresweld always said the blade chooses the warrior. Ma did laugh at that. But she blessed the sword the day I rode out to save Dashma. And the blessing of a mage like my Ma was a rare thing.”

“What did the blessing do?”

Ekkie sighed. “It’s hard to explain, because the sword  _ itself _ can’t do it. But in the hands of one fighting a just fight, the sword helps you find your way to win. I reckon you and Faithkeeper hit it off.”

“Faithkeeper?”

“Dashma called it that. He said that a little faith goes a long way.”          

After that, Ekkie settled herself by the roaring fire, and Clara slowly brought Faithkeeper back to a shine, often glancing at the bed, watching the Doctor’s chest rise and fall. As his face relaxed and his fever cooled, her aching fear that he would regenerate faded.

“Are you okay? Sleeping there?” Clara asked the old lady, who was beginning to doze in her chair.

“Sure. But no need for you to. Why don’t you lay along with him?”

“I don’t know. He’s a bit funny about getting close. I don’t know if he’d like it. He wouldn’t even let me hug him when he first--” Clara was going to say ‘changed’ but how could she explain regeneration to Ekkie? “It took a while for him to be comfortable with me being close to him.”

“But he  _ has _ got used to it?”

“Yes. I suppose he has.” He’d surprised her, in fact, with the way he’d changed since Christmas. For a man who proclaimed himself ‘not a hugger now’ he’d swept her off her feet, quite literally, a few months ago back at the Viking village. He’d even danced, a bit, with her that night.

Ekkie gave a dry cackle. “Well, you can spend the night in a chair if you want, but if I were you I’d sooner be in there, curled up with  _ him _ .”

Clara couldn’t deny it. She’d far rather be next to him than anywhere else in the universe. It didn’t make much sense to be cold in the chair when there was room in the bed. 

Scruff, who had been curled by the fire, got up and nosed the thick curtain covering the cottage door aside, and disappeared through a flap in the door. He returned a few minutes later, scurrying over to Ekkie, tail between his legs.

“Forgot about them horses, did you?” Ekkie asked the little dog, pulling a blanket from the back of her chair and covering herself with it. Seeing his chance, Scruff leapt onto her lap.

“Damn cheek,” Ekkie scolded, but she didn’t push the dog away, she just rubbed his ears while he made himself comfortable.

Clara had to decide where to sleep. Cold chair or warm bed? The fire was crackling now, but give it a few hours and the room would be freezing. The crafty old woman hadn’t offered her a blanket, despite Clara distinctly remembering seeing some in the cupboard this morning. Making a decision, she quickly stripped off her leather britches, hopped softly onto the bed, and drew the drape across. 

“Goodnight, Ekkie,” she whispered. 

“Night,” came the reply.

Clara lay carefully by the Doctor’s side, listening to his steady breaths, watching his face illuminated by shards of moonlight slicing through a gap in the curtains. After a while, she must have drifted into a restless sleep, for she dreamed of trying to slay a mighty dragon, who, in the middle of hand-to-hand combat, asked her if she wouldn’t rather fly away on his back over the distant mountains.  

“Clara.” The Doctor’s voice, a low whisper in the darkness, brought her stumbling back from her dreams. 

“Where are we?” he asked.

“We’re safe,” Clara said. “At my friend’s house. How do you feel?”

“Leg’s a bit stiff,” he whispered. “I remember this terrible spider. And this amazing, brave woman, with a sword, leaping around all over the place.”

“Oh?” Clara smiled. His eyes met hers. Her heart began dancing in her chest. He seemed on the verge of saying more, moving closer. 

But he smiled, his hair silver in the moonlight, his eyes stormy blue. “If I meet her again, I’d better thank her. She saved my life.” He was talking around things, in that way of his, as if the right combination of words were buried deep, and if he said what was in his hearts the pit would crash down and smother him. This was how things were between them. Him making shaky, uncertain stabs at intimacy and connection and then retreating into a joke or behind a layer of clever words. That was his vulnerability. It was in her gift to hurt him or heal him.

Clara reached her hand to his face. “She already knows,” she whispered.

He covered her hand with his own, and after a while, he threaded his fingers through hers, letting their hands fall together on the bed between them. 

He whispered, “We should probably go back to sleep,” and said nothing more.

Clara lay in the little moonlit island, surrounded by faded curtains, drifting in and out of hazy dreams. At some point she ended up with her back pressed to his front, his arms looped around her, her knees in the crook of his, his breath hot on her neck, two spoons nestled together perfectly. She snuggled down in the warmth of his embrace, hardly daring to breathe in case she broke the spell. To be close to him like this had touch of magic to it. Perhaps they could lay this way forever, in each other’s arms, and forget about the world. 


	6. The Freedom to Fly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara and the Doctor repay Ekkie for her kindness. Meanwhile, those Dwarves are up to no good.

When Clara woke again, the early morning sun was streaming through a chink in the curtain from the outside window, and she could hear Ekkie moving behind the drape separating the bed from the rest of the room. The Doctor lay on his back staring at the ceiling. For a moment she longed for that feeling she’d had in his arms, nestled there as if she belonged. But the Doctor who had held her close in the darkness seemed gone now, his face thoughtful, almost severe. But his colour was right now, and he wasn’t wracked with pain, so that was a huge plus.

“You look better,” she said. “Let me see your leg.”

“It’s fine.”

“Doctor…” Her tone brokered no argument, and with obvious reluctance he peeled the bed covers back to reveal his upper thigh. He was right, though, the wound had healed far better than it had any right to. 

At that moment, Ekkie flung back the drape. “Ack, you twos wake, then?”

The Doctor hastily covered himself, not knowing, of course that their host could see nothing of his skinny bare legs. 

Clara fought down a smirk, holding her face in a serious expression. “Doctor, this is Ekkie. Ekkie, this is the Doctor.”

Clara crawled out of bed, still wearing the man’s shirt Ekkie had given her yesterday. 

“So this would be the fellow you were so desperate to be saving?” Ekkie said.

Clara threw him his trousers. He whipped the drape across, presumably to spare them the sight of him struggling into them. Seconds later, he burst from the bed.

His eyes journeyed the room, taking in the stove and ramshackle table, the bottles and jars on the shelves, and landing, with a delighted smile, on his jacket hanging on the back of a chair. 

“My coat!” he declared, with affection, and shrugged his way into it. With a twirl and a flourish, straightening his cuffs, there he was, full Doctor, back in the game.

He turned to their host, examining her face. “I presume I have you to thank for equipping my rescuer and putting me right after that spider bite?”

“Think nothing of it.” Ekkie said, dismissively.

“On the contrary. I think a great deal of your kindness.Thank you.”

He turned to say something to Clara. His eyes stuttered, flicking over her bare legs and then quickly away again, his face flushing red hot. 

That small gesture left Clara’s head spinning. He’d not only noticed her legs, but he’d noticed his own reaction to her legs and been embarrassed. At least that’s how it seemed. He didn’t  _ notice _ things, not usually. So what did that mean? That he liked looking? Or that he didn’t want to look? It was impossible to tell with the Doctor. Clara sighed. Maybe she was overthinking this. In any case, she couldn’t wander around in just this shirt and the clothes she’d arrived in two days ago were in tatters. 

“Ekkie, I don’t suppose you have spare clothes? I don’t feel like putting that dress on again.” Clara shuddered at the thought of that red silk dress, and her foolish mistake with the Marquis that ended up with their terrifying flight through the forest. Now it was her turn to flush and not meet the Doctor’s eyes.

Ekkie took the kettle from the stove and poured hot water into two mugs. “What’s wrong with what you had on yesterday?” 

The brigandine and cape were where Clara had left them at the foot of the bed, the boots standing to attention by the door. Faithkeeper was in its scabbard, tucked under the bed.

“Nothing! I liked it. Loved it, in fact. It’s just...those are your things. Your memories. It doesn’t seem right to take them.”

“Ah ha. I bet you looked mighty fine. How did she look, Doctor?” There was a cheeky glint in Ekkie’s pale eyes as she spoke. Clara guessed what the crafty old woman was up to. For a moment she heartily wished for the floorboards to swallow her whole. She knew what he’d say. 

“She was magnificent,” the Doctor said, glancing at Clara again. Then he seemed to catch himself and tore his eyes away. But not before she caught a glimpse of something. Amusement. Admiration, maybe? Perhaps something more.  _ Impossible. _

“There.  _ Magnificent _ ,” Ekkie repeated. “Those clothes will never be magnificent in my cupboard, will they?” Ekkie set three plates on the table. 

Clara’s eyes were fixed on the Doctor. “Do you really think I was magnificent?” The moment she’d said it she felt a blush of shame, a twist in her gut telling her to stop fishing for compliments like some insecure kid, but there was a deep part of her that longed to be brave in his eyes, wanted so badly for him to be impressed with her. She felt foolish and needy, and for a moment she feared he might say something scornful to knock her down.

“You’re always magnificent to me, Clara Oswald,” he said quietly.

“Do you mean that?”

“With both hearts.” 

Clara’s breath caught. They seemed trapped in an infinite moment, his eyes locked with hers, bodies so close they were almost touching. One step and she would be in his arms. For his part, he looked trapped somewhere between wanting to open his arms to her and wanting to run far away, suspended in amber, waiting for her to move so he would know what to do.  

The kettle whistled, long and high, jerking Clara’s attention towards the stove, and the spell binding them to that moment broke. 

The Doctor moved to look out of the window, and Clara quickly got dressed.

#

After breakfast, they all ventured into the garden to round up the horses, with the plan that Clara and the Doctor would return Poppy and Firebrand to Phar Lambre, and from there walk back to Lagradil and the TARDIS.

“That cloak is a fine disguise.” The Doctor said, running his hand over the velvet. “What’s it made of?”

“Woven from the hair of a dozen young elphwicks, all harvested on a full moon, so Aunt Gresweld told me. But she did tell tall stories. She also said she stole it from the King of the Anglesets.” 

A noise from above made Clara look up. The beating of wings, rythmic like slow drums. Then, with a rush of wind that almost knocked Clara backwards, the beast from the cave crashed into the garden, mottled brown leathery wings flapping awkwardly as she settled on the grass next to Firebrand and Poppy. Startled, the horses heads shot up, but upon seeing the dragon-pig, Firebrand gave a disdainful snort, swished his golden-red tail, and then continued his assault on Ekkie’s herb patch. 

The Doctor stepped in front of Clara, which was really sweet, but, quite hilarious since  _ she _ was the one wearing a battle suit and sword in her belt. 

Ekkie nodded at the snorting creature. “That’s Snuffkin come to see what the fuss is about.” She made her way past the bushes onto the patch of grass, and Snuffkin gave a snort, head low, two small tusks protruding from either side of her snout,  snuffling at Ekkie’s outstretched hand. “Jealous, are you, girl?” Scratching her upturned ear, Ekkie laughed. “Sometimes, me Dashma and Snuffkin would race Phar on Firebrand, if we met on the road. We always won, didn’t we?” Ekkie gave Snuffkin a solid pat on her scaly neck, and the dragon-pig brought her head around, as if trying to nudge Ekkie towards her back. Her tail was long, brown and scaly, ending not in barbs, but a tuft of light hair.

“I think she misses our little jaunts,” Ekkie said. “Them were good days.”

His eyes wide with barely contained excitement, the Doctor put out his hand, and Snuffkin sniffed it gingerly, nudging his fingers with her snout. “You’re right. She does miss it. She wants to know why you stopped. Thinks you don’t like her anymore.”

Ekkie cackled with laughter, leaning on her stick, clearly thinking the Doctor was joking. “Does she, now?”

Clara tugged on Ekkie’s arm, and explained, “He speaks, well, he speaks almost everything.”

“Really? He’s a Mage?” Ekkie said. 

“Seems that way, sometimes,” Clara conceded. 

The Doctor ran his hand down Snuffkin’s neck and along her shoulder. A wild look glimmered in his eye. A mischievous turn broke the corner of his lips. Clara knew that look. He was itching to chase off, jump into the abyss, or in this case, leap onto the back of a large winged creature.   

“Doctor?” Clara felt a thrill run through her too, as he grinned back at her, and before she could say another word, he’d swung a long leg over Snuffkin’s back. The dragon-pig’s head shot up, and she pawed the earth with her front foot, sharp brown reptilian claws spitting up clods of Ekkie’s overgrown lawn. 

The Doctor looked down at Clara, eyes sparkling. He thrust his hand out. “Care to join me?”

Without hesitation, Clara clasped the Doctor’s hand. He swung her up on the beast’s back behind him. 

“Ekkie, it looks like Snuffkin is taking the Doctor and I for a spin.”

With three flaps of her broad wings Snuffkin was in the air, scattering the horses, and then climbing, up over the steep bank at the back of the garden, and away over the forest. 

Clara held the Doctor tight with her arms, and gripped Snuffkin’s body with her legs. All things considered, it wasn’t completely unlike riding a horse, but for the scaly hide and the wings joining the body just behind Clara’s legs, and of course, the ground rushing past meters below. The wind caught her hair, whipping it up into a stream behind her, and the rush of air on her face almost took her breath away. Clara wanted to whoop out loud. Whoever got to do stuff like this? It had to rank alongside riding in Santa’s sleigh as one of the best feelings of all time. And this was no dream. She held tight to the Doctor, determined to enjoy every moment.  

Below, the Dark Forest’s canopy was thick and dense, a rich carpet of many shades of green. A small flock of bright blue birds rose, startled, from the treetops, billowing up in a cloud, and then parting as Snuffkin plunged through them. 

The Doctor leaned forwards, touching Snuffkin’s neck, perhaps communicating with her. What was it like to walk the eons, talking with aliens and ancient beasts, giant dinosaurs and dragon-pigs, flicking backwards and forwards through the pages of history? Treading lightly, so he claimed, although how he fooled himself into thinking he possessed that particular virtue was a mystery to Clara. He was a force of nature, going full throttle, and once he’d touched someone’s life, Clara doubted anyone was really the same again. And she knew, deep in her bones, as well as she knew her own name, that she didn’t want to be. She could never unknow what she knew, the glorious beauty and terrible danger that hovered behind the veil of ordinary life. No thanks! She’d never give this up, never! She gripped the Doctor tight, and he laughed aloud. 

The forest was thinning now. They followed the course of a burbling river for a while, watching the slow waters in the morning sun tripping over glistening rocks. They rose higher as they approached Lagradil town, the people below scurrying in the distance, the marketplace crawling with soldiers in bright red livery, livestock milling in pens, and at the edge of the market, Clara glimpsed a blue square that made her heart leap. The TARDIS. 

They flew on to the harbour, with great sailing ships nestled in the dock, tiny people dashing on and off, and then Snuffkin turned up along the wild coast, waves crashing against the rocks, sending showers of white foam leaping into the sun.  

Ekkie must miss this. The sheer joy of flying free. Independence. As the blue waters below turned back to green forests, an idea blossomed in Clara’s mind. 

“Doctor,” she leaned forward, yelling to be heard over the rushing wind. “Have you explained to Snuffkin why Ekkie doesn’t fly anymore?” 

“Yes,” he called back. “She understands, but thinks it’s a shame.”

“So do I. Would Snuffkin object to a saddle? There’s an old one in Ekkie’s outhouse.” Perhaps they could adapt it. It might help Ekkie feel confident she could hold her balance. It was worth checking out, at least. 

The Doctor leaned forward for a few moments, and then turned back to Clara, with a grin and a thumbs up. 

When they returned, Ekkie and Scruff stood in the garden, the little dog yapping excitedly at Snuffkin, who landed with a graceless flump in the bushes at the side of the garden, before lurching onto the grass. 

Still buzzing with the thrill of the flight, Clara leapt from Snuffkin’s back. “That was amazing. Brilliant,” she said breathlessly.

The Doctor jumped down at her side, grinning. He put a hand on Snuffkin’s snout, and then lay his forehead against her forehead, as if he were communicating, which Clara supposed, he probably was. 

Clara strode across the garden to Ekkie. “Look. What if we could fit Snuffkin with a saddle. Help you keep your balance. Would you trust her enough to fly again?”

“A saddle? I don’t know what she’d make of that.”

The Doctor broke his commune with the dragon-pig. “She’s fine with it, as long as it doesn’t pinch or chafe. Say’s she had no idea you couldn’t see now, and not to worry, she’ll look after you.”

Ekkie’s mouth dropped open. 

The Doctor continued, taking long strides towards the outhouse. “Stuff in here?” 

Clara dashed after him to make sure he wasn’t about to start cannibalising Firebrand or Poppy’s tack, and found him sitting cross legged with the old saddle at his side,  turning out a box he’d dragged out from under a bench, pulling out old martingales, stirrup leathers and a riding crop. “We won’t need  _ that, _ ” he said, with an air of disgust, throwing it into the air behind him. We’ll need a much longer girth to fix the saddle, but I think we’ve got enough here to work with.” He looked up. 

Clara found she was staring at him, blown away again by his energy, his sheer vitality, all returned in a glorious rush. Last night she’d been afraid she would loose him, and here he was, as mad and wonderful as ever. 

“What?” he said, looking mystified.

Clara shook her head. “Nothing. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

He quirked a smile, and lept to his feet. “Okay. Let’s make an old lady and a dragon-pig happy.” 

#

“Wooohooo!” Ekkie clutched the front of the saddle as Snuffkin lumbered a few steps across the garden and took off. Grey hair streaming behind her, Ekkie hunched low, leaning into the wind.

“Wow,” Clara said. “I hope I’ll be flying over an alien forest on a dragon-pig when I’m her age.”

The Doctor stared at her, with a look on his face she couldn’t read. “I hope I’ll be there to see it.”  

Clara titled her head to one side, opened her mouth to speak, but somehow the words wouldn’t come, they were laced with heavy questions and desperate wishes.  _ What does that mean _ ? She wanted to ask. But of course she didn’t, she just continued to stare at him until he looked away.

“Me too,” she finally forced out, but by that time Ekkie was swooping overhead, laughing wildly, and the Doctor was running up the garden to meet her. 

 

**Lagradil Town**

“See I told you. That’s her. That wide face. Over-large eyes.” Dorrin Bloodhammer didn’t linger on the details of the rest of the picture, for the human female form, all curves and soft edges, had always made him slightly queasy. But  _ this _ human female happened to be worth ten gold pieces. 

“Reckon you’re right, cousin.” Gorrin said, staring at the hand-drawn picture. The poster showed her wearing a blue dress, not the leathers and cape he’d seen her in, but he knew it was her. It was those wide brown eyes. 

Dorrin and Gorrin Bloodhammer were standing in the marketplace in Lagradil town, and a picture of the woman ‘Clara’ was pinned to a euclep tree. Everyone knew her crime, although the poster spelled it out.  _ Avoidance of lawful selection.  _ Ten whole gold pieces for information leading to her capture.

“You know what the Marquis does to the one’s who run?” Gorrin said. 

Dorrin shrugged. He’d heard rumours of course. People knew the risks if they were chosen and didn’t comply. A life of pampered luxury or the torments of the chamber. This woman took her chances when she ran.

“If we don’t turn her in, someone else will.” Dorrin could do a lot with five gold pieces. It was none of his business how the Marquis dealt with his chosen ones.

Gorrin pulled at his beard. “Fair point. We should go to the guardhouse.”

The guardhouse was less of a house, and more of a long wooden shack on stilts, with rough steps leading up over an armoury and the stables. The soldier’s living quarters were at one end, and at the other was the small room serving as the Captain’s office. One liveried guard stood outside. 

Dorrin handed Gorrin his pickaxe. “Hold this, and stay here.”

“What?’ Gorrin stared hard at Dorrin, suspicion in his beady eyes. 

“We can’t march up the steps to the guardhouse armed.”

Gorrin frowned. “These are tools, not weapons.”

“ _ He _ won’t know that. He’ll think we’re a raiding party.”

“Of two?”

“Just shut up and hold it,” Dorrin growled, and stomped up the wooden staircase. The guard pulled himself out of a slouch and looked the Dwarf up and down.  

“What do you want?”

“I need to speak to the Captain.”

“Captain’s busy.”

“I’ve got information. About the woman, Clara.”

“Yeah?” The guard rolled his eyes, disinterested.  “You and half of Lagradil.”

“No. Really. I know where she’ll be later today.”

“Sure you do.” The guard sneered down at Dorrin through a scruffy short beard. He was one of those human men who might be called handsome by those who cared for such things, but to Dorrin he had the sharp green eyes of man who would steal his pickaxe and try to sell it back to him.   

“Saw her ride out of an inn yesterday with my own eyes. She’ll be back there today.” The guard squinted at Dorrin. “Why are you so sure it was her?”

“The eyes. It was the eyes.”

“What was she wearing?” 

“She wasn’t wearing no blue dress like in the poster. She had armour, and an Angleset cloak.”

The guard suddenly looked more interested. “Oh? Where was this you saw her, then?”

Dorrin scoffed. This man must think him a fool. “I ain’t telling you that.”

“I gotta check things out. Can’t go runnin’ to Captain Blamwitch with another daft tale. More than my neck’s worth.” The guard put an arm around Dorrin’s shoulder. “Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll check your story out, and if it turns out to be her, which I’m not saying it will,  _ then _ we talk to the Captain.

Dorrin didn’t much like the sound of that, and he said so. 

“Well, it’s up to you,” the guard replied with a sour smile. “If you can bring her in, be my guest.” Dorrin liked the sound of  _ that _ even less. From what he’d heard, Clara had killed the great spider. And she wore the silver emblem of the Mage King on her cloak. He glanced down at Gorrin, who was kicking idly at the post at the bottom of the steps. He and Gorrin were miners, not soldiers. He turned back to the guard, and said grudgingly, “What do you suggest?”

The guard slapped Dorrin’s shoulder. “Why don’t you let me confirm it’s her, and then I’ll get the Captain to make the arrangements.”

“How do I know you’re not putting one on me?”

“Please! They don’t call me Honest Jack Havernack for nothing. Besides, between you and me, last fella what sent the Captain on a goose chase ended up in the stocks for a day. Don’t fancy that, do you?” 

Dorrin shuddered. The stocks were no place for Dorrin Bloodhammer. He’d made enough enemies in Lagradil to be sure he’d have one hell of a day in the town stocks. 

“Alright,” he said. “We’ll show you.” 

#

Honest Jack Havernack skidded into the barracks, looking for Barney Lightfoot Larkins. The long room was mostly empty at this hour, with guards off duty this shift out playing handspin and sinking ale one of Lagradil’s many taverns. But Lightfoot usually hung around the barracks these days, as he found handspin too complicated, and the last time he’d taken ale he had an unfortunate encounter with a river Orc. Lightfoot was the hulking kind of man, all seven foot of him, folk wanted on their side in battle, but in a bar brawl he could blitz a place. The whole garrison had been put on warning after the river Orc incident, and decided Lightfoot was best kept sober and back at barracks, at least until The Nag’s Head was rebuilt. Lightfoot was laying on his bed, flicking small bits of crunched up paper, formerly the pages of a book, at the ceiling.  

“Eh, Lightfoot, still on house arrest?”

“I ain’t arrested.”

“Nah, course not. Happen I think it’s right unfair you’re stuck back here.”

Brightfoot pulled his big face into the parody of a suspicious look, which on him just seemed bemused.

“What do you say,” Havernack went on, “to the chance of earning a few gold pieces?

Brightfoot sat up, scattering the remaining torn pages of his book onto the floor. “How?”

“Couple o’ Dwarves reckon they’ve found that woman the Marquis is after at some inn out Brevnick way. We go with them, check the story out. Then  _ we _ bring her in.”

“What about the Captain?”

“No.” Havernack wouldn’t tell Captain Blamwitch a damn thing. He knew exactly what would happen if he did. “We can kiss goodbye to the reward if we get the Captain involved.” 

Lightfoot’s snail-brain was still catching up with the point about the reward, his big round face contorted into an almost painful expression of concentration. “Why would the Dwarves share the reward with us, anyway?”

Havernack grinned. “They might need a little persuasion on that point. But don’t you worry. Honest Jack will deal with  _ that _ when we get there.”   

#

The Doctor watched Clara hug Ekkie goodbye. Laughing, Ekkie extracted herself, took hold of Clara’s hand, and, rather oddly, turned it over and seemed to sniff her wrist. Then she shook her head and shrugged and let Clara embrace her again.  

“Thank you,” Clara said. “I can’t begin tell you how grateful we are.” 

Ekkie sniffed. “Ah, never mind that. You just carry on being magnificent, girl.”

Clara glanced up at the Doctor, a flush of red tinging her cheeks. He had no idea what  _ that _ signified, but he felt his own face heat a little too.  

He hadn’t been joking when he’d told Clara she looked magnificent. She wore the leather brigandine, white shirt, and fine black cloak and shining boots. When she mounted Firebrand, sword at her side, she looked like she’d been doing it for years. She'd told him the sword was named Faithkeeper. He’d always been deeply suspicious of those who named their weapons. But this seemed to fit with Clara, somehow, and he liked it. A bit too much. In fact, he had to be careful not to get caught staring. He tried not to look in her direction, but frankly it was hard  _ not _ to. As he watched her turn Firebrand, the chestnut horse’s mane flowing red-gold in the breeze, the Doctor felt Ekkie’s hand on his knee.

“Thank you, Doctor. You’ve given me my freedom back.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, still staring at Clara. She stopped, turned her horse about for a moment, before laughing and letting Firebrand spring off into a canter along the trail through the forest.

“You’d be a fool to let that girl get away,” said Ekkie. 

Clara's hair shone chestnut in the afternoon light, and though she’d quietly complained about needing a shower, to him, she seemed perfect. “I know!” he said to Ekkie, and then pushed Poppy into a canter.


	7. The Lumin Glade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara and the Doctor head back to The Wayfarer, unaware of the threat waiting there.

Hetty shot past her father at The Wayfarer’s back door and out into the yard, brandishing a wooden sword. 

“Hetty, where’s Waylor?” Da called as she whizzed past.

Hetty yelled back “With Ma, repairing some torn britches” without once breaking her stride. She leapt onto a hay bale, swinging the wooden sword high over her head. “Take that, foul beast!” 

Yesterday morning Lilly and Marsha Mantrip had brought word that Baldor lay dead, and by nightfall the farmers and livestock herders, along with the fit and able of the village, had gathered outside the spider’s cave with pitchforks, axes, and even a few swords brought home from the Fell Wars that had been hidden away in attics and sheds. Without the giant spider to protect the younglings, the people made short work of the nest. And the stories they told of it later that night in The Wayfarer grew taller with every tankard of ale. Hetty’s Da didn’t say so, but she felt sure the dark haired stranger who rode out on Firebrand killed Baldor. It  _ had _ to be her. She said she was going to rescue her friend. She had a sword, and a cloak that looked like it was out of Tales of Faraway, and she’d rode Firebrand like a warrior queen. 

Hetty jumped from the bale and rolled, leaping to her feet, and plunged the sword downwards. One day she’d have a real sword, just like the stranger. She’d protect her village from deadly beasts, she’d scare the elphwicks and boggruffs away, and if the horrible Marquis tried to take any of  _ her _ friends for his revolting chamber, then she’d run his soldiers through.

“Hetty!” Da’s voice jerked her back to reality, as he hurried with Waylor across the yard by the stables.  

Da’s face was as solemn as she’d ever seen it, aside from the time he’d come to tell her and Waylor their grandmother had passed. Something wasn’t right. Tightness clasping her chest, she shot a questioning glance at Waylor. He shrugged, turning his palms up as if he had no clue what was going on either.

“Da, what’s wrong?” Hetty said.

Da shot a glance back at the inn’s door, and then motioned them inside Firebrand’s empty stable.

He pulled the door closed. “You remember the friend of Ekkie’s who was here yesterday? Took Firebrand and Poppy?”

Hetty nodded. “The one who killed Baldor?”

“We don’t know she did that. But it’s not a  _ bad _ guess.” Da looked out of the yard again. 

Hetty had never seen him so worried. Fear bubbled in her, making her tummy tumble and trip. What had gotten Da so worked up? He chewed at his bottom lip with his teeth and looked from her to Waylor and back again, as if he didn’t know where to start.

After a moment, he said, “Me and your Ma, we’ve tried to raise you right. Go to school. Look after one another. Don’t cheat. Follow the law.” He narrowed his eyes, as if he was trying to work out something something very difficult. “That stranger,” he said slowly, “turns out she run away from the Marquis.”

“Avoider of lawful selection?” Hetty said, something cold curling inside her. 

Da sighed. “There’s the law. And then there’s things we know are right  _ in here _ .” He made a fist and brought it to his chest. “We know it ain’t right for the Marquis to do what he does.” He looked at Hetty. Was that shame in his eyes? “But always it was away in Lagradil town,” he went on. “I didn’t reckon he’d bother with girls in Brevnick, so I thought... I thought keep your nose clean, Phar Lambre. Work hard, raise your family right, and let what happens in Lagradil town stay in Lagradil town.” Da put both his hands up to his head and walked a few paces across the stable. “But those dwarves brought soldiers into our bar, and they’re laughing and joking ‘bout what the Marquis’ll do to that stranger when he gets her.” He let his hands drop to his sides and turned back to face them, his face hardening. “It’s not in Lagradil now. It’s here in Brevnick.”

Da scooted down low, took one of their small in each of his. It seemed to Hetty his eyes were on fire. A thrill of excitement shuddered through her. Something important was happening, she could feel it. She might be only twelve but she knew that the Marquis’ and what went on in his chamber was to be feared.  

“Your Ma is right,” Da said. “We can’t sit back and do nothing and expect to rest easy at night. “So, my sweets, can you run? Run along the Lagradil road as fast as you can, all the way to Ekkie’s if you have to. Find the stranger and warn her not to come here.”

Hetty nodded. By her side Waylor was nodding too, his mouth slightly open. “We can, Da. We’ll find her.”

Da gripped their hands tighter. “But this is important. After you find the stranger, you go to Ekkie’s and you both stay there. Don’t come back here. Do you hear me? Stay at Ekkie’s until me or your Ma come for you.”

“But Da--” Hetty and Waylor objected in unison.

“No arguments. If there’s going to be trouble here, I don’t want you near it.”

“What trouble, Da?” Hetty asked. 

Da glanced at the back door of the inn. He smiled, a wide smile, the sort of smile adults wore when they wanted kids to think nothing was wrong. 

“There’ll be no trouble. Just your old Da being over-cautious. Beside, Ekkie could do with the company.” He hugged them both, an arm around each other their backs, crushing them to his beery apron. “Run fast, stay together, and promise you’ll wait at Ekkie’s?”

They both nodded. He kissed them both in turn on the head, and with that he was gone, hurrying out of the stable, across the yard, and back through The Wayfarer’s rear door.  

Hetty felt six feet tall. They were going to save the stranger from those awful dwarves and their terrible plan. As long as Waylor could keep up, of course. She could run much faster than him. She rose, ready to run, but Waylor yanked her back down.

“Not that way! They’ll see us. We need to go out the back and cut through Brevnick Woods.” 

Hetty pressed herself back down to the ground, grumbling, but Waylor was right. They’d be seen through the inn’s side windows if they went out the front. They’d have to skirt the paddock and then use the bush tunnel that lead to their secret den, but then veer left and join the road the other side of the lake. They’d run that road plenty of times, playing pirates and dragon slayers. But this wasn’t a game. The brave stranger needed  _ their _ help. The Lambre twins would not let her down.

#

Clara and the Doctor rode side by side, at a leisurely pace along the winding track through the sunlit forest. The day was far too beautiful to rush. The forest noises, the crackle of twigs, the rustle of the breeze through the trees, all filled Clara with a flush of pleasure. She felt a strange connection to this place. The world seemed brighter here, the sunlight bursting through the trees in golden spears or filtering through the canopy casting lacework patterns on the forest floor. The warm air still and calm. A single bird, its notes clear and sharp, trilled a lonely melody and was answered moments later by an unseen chorus of joyous song. 

The Doctor cast occasional glances in her direction, probably when he thought she wasn’t looking, but said little. He’d raised his eyebrows when she strapped Ekkie’s sword to her waist again, but passed no comment. In fact, she was pretty sure a sly smile flitted over his features before he pressed it down. 

Clara felt the light sweetness of the air lifting her heart, the shadows of yesterday a dull memory of a different place. Her Doctor was still here, still safe. Nothing had changed. Yet things didn’t feel quite the same. Was she seeing the world through different eyes or were the colours really brighter, the air fresher, sounds crisper? 

“It’s beautiful here,” she said, a sense of awe lifting her spirits. 

“Yes. Yes it is.” He glanced her way as he spoke, and she wondered, not for the first time, just what went on behind those blue-grey eyes. Sometimes he wore the face of wrath, terrible and strange, but others, like now, there was mischief, laced with adventure, wrapped up in the body of a distractible rock star, childlike and ancient all at once. 

“What do you know about this place?” Clara asked him. They arrived three days ago, although it seemed much longer, for the Festival of Lights, but the Doctor hadn’t told her much about the place. He certainly didn’t mention magic. Ekkie said she wasn’t much of a mage, that was more her mother’s department. Which of course implied that she was a  _ bit _ of a mage. And she lit the stove with her fingers right in front of Clara’s eyes! She’d been so tired and wrapped up with what was happening with Doctor at that point, Clara didn’t give that attention it deserved. 

“I don’t know much, to be honest,” the Doctor said, “I knew the Festival is spectacular. Thought it would be fun. I wasn’t expecting...”

Clara laughed. “You never are. That’s half the fun of traveling with you. Never a dull moment.”

He glanced her way again. That look: sometimes she was sure he knew exactly what he was doing when he captured her eyes and smiled, and yet other times he seemed so completely unaware of her as a woman that she wanted to shake him. Some days, like today, she felt trapped in a game she didn’t quite know the rules to. Perhaps he felt that way too. 

“Why do you keep coming back for me?” It wasn’t exactly the question she needed to ask, it skirted the edges of bigger, harder questions, like how he felt and what he wanted. But it was the best she could wring out right now, so it would have to do.

“Why do you keep coming with me?” he shot back.   

Clara laughed. How predictable. She should have known she couldn’t pin him down. His eyes shifted, and just for a second she sensed he was afraid of giving the wrong answer.  

She thought for a long time before she answered. “Because there’s no one like you. You show me wonders.”

He stared at her then, his eyes boring into hers. “Likewise.” 

He continued to stare, until she began to wonder if something was wrong. “What?”

“How do you feel?” he asked. “I mean, the other night, after the cave. After what I did. You were, well you seemed a bit high. Do you remember?”

“I remember attacking that spider with a pointy stick. And feeling pretty invulnerable. I think you said I was high off regeneration energy. You shouldn’t have done that, by the way,” she chided.  “A few scrapes and bruises won’t do me any harm.” She remembered more than that, of course. She had a rather vexing recollection of trying to kiss him and him rebuking her, but she didn’t feel much like owning that right now.

“Anything else?” he pressed.

“No. Should I?”

He made a small shrug. “Not really. Just curious.”   

Clara decided to take control of the conversation and steer it a few light-years away from her indiscretion. She wasn’t the only one who’d been acting odd, lately. 

“When you were rambling, after the spider bite, you said something a bit strange.”

“Only one thing?” he quipped.

“Good point. You said that I was a barmaid who kissed you on the stairs.”

“I believe I was also talking about rivers dreaming and cities singing. I fear I might not be the most reliable source of information under the influence of spider venom.” He pushed Poppy into a trot and called over his shoulder. “Everything’s a bit fuzzy.” 

“I bet it is,” Clara grumbled, feeling a little deflated, but not altogether surprised. “Who’s Ace?” she called, not inclined to completely let him off the hook. “You said you’d take him back to Perivale.”

“Her. Ace was my friend. A long time ago now. You’d like her. Attacked Daleks with a baseball bat.”

“My kind of girl.” They rode in silence for a while. She knew she wasn’t the first girl he’d brought back to the TARDIS. How could she be? In two thousand years he’d made a lot of friends. “How many others? Before me, I mean?”

He continued to stare straight ahead, as if he hadn’t heard, but Clara knew he had. His eyes always changed when he was sad, and they looked old and heavy now. She was sorry she’d asked. It was hardly a fair question. She could spend the rest of her life at his side and when her life winked out he would be alone again. Time after time. 

When he didn’t answer, Clara tried another question. “Ekkie said her mother was a mage. In fact,” Clara glanced at the Doctor sideways before she said the next part of the sentence, because she could already hear his reply playing in her head, “she asked me if I had magic in my family.” 

“There’s no such thing as magic, Clara. She’s a healer, granted, that poultice she made up--”

“Here’s the thing,” Clara interjected, “she lit her stove with her fingertip.”

The Doctor raised his eyebrows. “There’s probably a scientific explanation.”

“Maybe,” Clara conceded. If there was, she’d like to hear it. There  _ was  _ something about this place. Ever since the cave, she’d felt different. As if she could see things a little more clearly, hear more, move faster. She wouldn’t mind betting if she had to, she could jump higher too. She couldn't explain it, not even to herself, but one thing was for sure: she liked it.

They rode on in silence for a while, until the Doctor stopped and peered into the undergrowth beyond the track and into the forest. “What’s that?”

Clara looked where he was pointing. Through the trees there was a glade, where the sun shone down onto vivid green grass and a carpet of low purple flowers, with one long petaled flower in particular much taller than the rest. It seemed to sway in the breeze. Yet the air was still. A high chittering came from the flower, shaking its long stem. The Doctor’s face bloomed into a grin, curiosity stealing his dour mood. 

“Doctor…” Clara warned. But it was too late. He urged Poppy off the track and into the woods. “Doctor!” she called again. “We have to get the horses back!” She didn’t expect him to listen. Part of her was eager to explore the mysteries of the glade. She might as well see what he’d found. Kicking Firebrand forward she left the track and moved deeper into the forest. 

#

“Come on!” Hetty urged Waylor. He was breathing hard, his shorter legs making it hard to keep up. He was much more of the indoor type.  He was bent almost double, leaning on his knees, paused by the side of the road. Here, the track was wide enough for a wagon, and the forest either side was dense. Nearer to Ekkie’s, the trees were spread more thinly. Every summer Ma and Da would take them with a picnic and find a spot in the light woods by the lumin flowers to eat and play. She and Waylor would run through the trees, and Ma and Da would sit among the purple flowers. Ma always seemed happy there. She said it helped her build up her reserves, whatever that meant. Hetty and Waylor would run deep into the woods, even as far as the river sometimes, and often play with their swords or bows and arrows.

In fact, Hetty had her wooden sword still in her hand now, as she stood waiting impatiently for Waylor.

“Alright!” Waylor snapped. “Fat lot of good  _ that _ will do you if we meet more soldiers.” 

“I can fight,” Hetty said. “I  _ will _ fight, if I have to.”

Waylor scowled, but said nothing. He started running again, and this time it was Hetty who had to sprint to catch up.

#

The Doctor dismounted and walked through the small glade, following a trail of flowers that seemed to run along a line in the undergrowth. Perhaps they were growing along the root system of these ancient trees. Or perhaps it was random, but they did grow taller as they progressed deeper into the forest. The stems were long and leafless, and the purple flowers atop were closed like tulips, although these were much bigger than any bulbiferous geophytes he’d ever seen. Clara had followed him, and once they pushed on through the glade, she dismounted too.

“These flowers, they’re making a noise,” Clara said.

She was right, there was a humming from inside the flower head. Clara leaned forward to gently brush her fingers across the petals, her face transformed by a smile. It’s funny what a smile does. It must have some kind of contagious effects, because her smile made him feel...what exactly? He’d tried to analyse it often enough and never once came up with a satisfactory answer. But right now, seeing her smile made  _ him  _ smile. Perhaps that was all he needed to know, but he had a nagging feeling it wasn’t, that he was missing something important. Possibly being an idiot. 

Clara laughed. “It tickles.”

“What?”

“I don’t know. But there’s something…”

The Doctor hung Poppy’s reins over a low hanging branch and walked over to where Clara was crouching. The vivid purple flower swayed gently, and a trickle of fine gold particles, like dust motes in the sun, were drifting from the cracks between the petals and away into the air.

He scanned the plant with the sonic screwdriver. “Hmmm. Interesting.” There was nothing toxic in the particles. Some of the genetic make up read as plain ordinary cellulose, but there was a small amount of something he couldn’t identify.  

“It’s a regular anemophilous plant, but--”

“A what?”

“This stuff. It’s pollen, spread by the wind. Doesn’t seem to be anything poisonous in it. Same as a billion species the universe over. But…”

There was that smile again. Clara let her fingers run through the gold spores, bathing her hands in a golden glow and her face in light.

“Perhaps we shouldn’t touch it,” he suggested, although there was something hypnotic about the way the light made her skin brighten.

“Why? You said it wasn’t poisonous. It feels…” She looked up at him then, her smile warm, tempting him to put his hand close to hers, to share the feeling. 

“It feels nice,” she prompted, inviting him to float his fingers through the shining dust.

He knew he shouldn’t, but his reluctance was tinged with curiosity. “Just because it’s not poisonous doesn't mean it’s not dangerous.”

Clara laughed out loud. “How dangerous can a plant be?” She stood up, put her head on one side, and backed away from the flower. Her hands were still yellow-tinted. She looked down at them in astonishment. “That’s weird.”

“Do you feel okay?”

“Yeah. Fine. Better than fine. I feel  _ good. _ ”

The Doctor approached her, sonic screwdriver in hand, and waved it up and down her torso. Her skin was  _ glowing _ .

“Stop it,” she said, batting it away playfully. “I’m fine.”

The Doctor frowned. It wasn’t that there was anything wrong, exactly, from what he could see, more that she seemed charged up at the cellular level. Her ribosomes were synthesising some unusual proteins.  He wished he had a full body scan to compare her readings to, but they’d have to get back to the TARDIS for that.

“We should probably return the horses and work out how to get back to the TARDIS,” he said, glancing through the grove and back to the road. But Clara and Firebrand were already following the trail of purple flowers deeper into the forest. “Clara!” he called, part of him slightly annoyed, but a bigger part of him just wanted to follow her and unravel the mystery. She looked over her shoulder with an impish grin, and he knew he was lost. With something inexplicable, but not unpleasant, burbling in his own chest, he gathered Poppy’s reins and followed.

#

Hetty and Waylor slowed to a walk. They must have run more than three miles, and even Hetty was getting tired now. 

“Do you think we missed her?” Waylor asked, breathing hard, his face read.

“I don’t know. Perhaps she’s still at Ekkie’s. We’re not far away now.” The lumin grove lay to her right. On any other day, she’d have wanted to spend time in the pool of sunlight illuminating the purple flowers, and let the veneficia spores from the lumin flowers wash over her, hoping some of them stuck, although Waylor showed much more aptitude to picking up magic than she did. But there was no time to play in the forest today. They had to press on. Hetty was starting to worry, though. What if Da had guessed wrong and the stranger wasn’t even on this road? 

Waylor put voice to her fears. “What if she’s coming from the other direction? Heading down from Dead Man’s Cross?” he said. “She might already be at the Wayfarer by now.”

“I hope not.” Hetty didn’t want to think about that. Soldiers in her home, pushing Ma and Da about, or worse. Waylor’s eyes were wide, and she guessed he was thinking the same thing. 

He broke into a trot. “Come on,” he said. “We’re almost there.”

#

When the Doctor led Poppy through the trees into the clearing, he found Clara sitting on a rock by a stream, her head back, hair draped over her black cloak, eyes closed, her skin almost back to its regular tanned shade, but still a hint of something more-- gold-- on her cheek bones. He watched her, caught up in the moment. Clara Oswald. Teacher, time traveler, sword bearer. Warrior. His friend. His  _ best  _ friend. 

Last night, when he had woke up beside her, he’d lain startled for a while, not knowing quite what to do with the confusing muddle of emotions in his chest. Some of it was probably the effects of the spider venom. But he had no such excuse right now. He wished she hadn’t kissed him in the woods the night before. Or more accurately, he wished she hadn’t kissed him when she was half out of her head after his ill-advised splash of regeneration energy. If she was going to kiss him, he wanted to be sure she meant it. She’d told him once, back when he’d only just changed, that she would smile first and then he’d know it was safe to smile. He taken that as the base code for their relationship. Her first. Then he would know it was safe. Seemed to work with the hugging, so he had every intention of sticking with that basic programme. Probably should write a prompt card.  _ No physical contact in the lip area unless Clara does it first. When she’s fully in command of her faculties.  _ With that worked out, he felt slightly better. He tied Poppy to the branch next to Firebrand on the riverside and sat down on the rock beside Clara. 

#

Ekkie heard the clamour of voices and footsteps on her garden path. Moments later, a hammering started up on the front door. Sounded like kids, and sure enough when she opened the door, the Lambre twins both started talking at once.

“Ekkie, it’s us, Hetty and Waylor. The stranger, is she here? She’s in danger. Da sent us.”

“Whoa!” Ekkie put up both her hands. “Hang you on.” She opened the door wider to let them spill inside, and then she closed and bolted it. She felt agitation coming off them in waves, as they hopped from one foot to another. Ekkie fumbled for a shoulder, and found one, the girl Hetty’s she thought, as the boy was shorter from what she remembered. “Steady, now,” she said, in her best calming-down voice. “One at a time. Tell me what’s up.”   

#

Clara didn’t open her eyes as the Doctor sat beside her, but she heard something, a very high buzzing, almost outside her hearing. Had the sonic screwdriver always made that noise?

“Are you scanning me again?”

“No.”

Something rustled, sounding suspiciously like the screwdriver being slipped back inside a pocket. Clara smiled, just to let him know she knew what he was up to, and that she didn’t mind much. How could she mind, when the air was so fresh, and the sun kissing her cheeks, and the water burbling over rocks and stones, and with Faithkeeper at her side? How could she mind anything on a day like this? She opened her eyes, and caught him looking at her. He glanced quickly away.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” he retorted, dead-faced.

Clara closed her eyes again.  _ Because sometimes you look like you have something to say and you can’t say it. Because I think you’re terribly lonely and afraid to admit it. Because I worry, sometimes, that being around me hurts you more than it helps, and other times I think we’re made for each other and that scares the hell out of you, and it probably should scare the hell out of me too. That’s why. _

But of course she didn’t say any of that. How could she? He’d laid the foundations of their relationship by telling her he wasn’t her boyfriend, and set the capstone by pushing her away the other night when she tried to kiss him. She definitely wasn’t going to repeat  _ that _ embarrassment.  

“Oh,” she said mildly, “I just wondered if there were any after effects. Of the spider venom.”

He rubbed his palm over the tear in his plaid trousers. “Ah, takes a bit more than a spider bite to put me off my stride, Clara.”

As he said her name, a small shudder ran through her, and she fancied she could feel his eyes on her, even though hers were shut. She wished he didn’t have this effect on her. Things would be much simpler if this  _ wanting _ she felt around him would stop, if the hopeful fluttering in her chest when he looked at her would switch itself off. Damn hormones!

Clara forced herself to sit upright. “We should probably get the horses back to The Wayfarer. It’ll be quite a walk back into town.” The TARDIS was by the marketplace, where they’d parked it when they first arrived, and she’d spied it from the air, boxy, blue and beautiful, as they flew Snuffkin over the marketplace.  Lovely as this place was, as powerful as she felt here, they had to move on. 

“Probably best if we hit the town around dusk,” the Doctor said. “Less likely we’ll draw the attention of the Marquis’ soldiers in the early evening than sneaking around in the dead of night. Good job your hands have stopped glowing.” 

Clara turned her hands over in front of her several times. “All that pollen stuff probably fell off.”  

“Or it was absorbed into your skin,” he noted. 

She rubbed her hands together briskly. “Whatever it was, it hasn’t done me any harm. I feel fine. A tiny bit  _ magnificent _ , even,” she said, unable to resist glancing at him sideways as she stood up. A sly grin crossed his face. Clara couldn’t help but grin too. He  _ likes it. He actually does like it. _ With that thought, and Faithkeeper clanging reassuringly at her side, Clara felt she could face anything Lagradil threw at them.

# 

“We ran all the way here, like Da said, but we didn’t see her,” Hetty told Ekkie breathlessly. Clara and the Doctor hadn’t been gone more than half an hour, so if they had stayed on the road, then the twins would have seen them for sure. Ekkie clicked her tongue. “They must have gone off the track, somewhere. But they were definitely heading to your Da’s place.”

“We have to run back!” Hetty said.

“But Da told us to stay here. We promised,” Waylor said.

“But the stranger! Those soldiers will take her.”

“Listen you two. This stranger, her name is Clara. And she killed Baldor. So them soldiers might have a harder time than they think. Anyways, she’s not on her own, she has a friend.”

“Her friend, is he a warrior too?”

“No. More of a Doctor. But all the same, he was clever and that counts for a lot.”

“Da’s all riled up,” Waylor said, with a worried expression. 

Ekkie knew Phar Lambre as a quiet man, who kept his bar and raised his kids best he could. He wasn’t a fighter or a warrior. But he  _ was _ a man of principle. He’d decided to send Hetty and Waylor here.That meant he was going to stand up for what was right. But Phar against the Marquis’ men? That wouldn’t end well. But what could she do?

“We should run back.” This was Hetty, and that was exactly what Ekkie  _ didn’t _ want them to do. She’d birthed these kids. She wasn’t about to let them run headlong into a fight. Not alone, anyway. 

“Now listen, you two. No one’s running off anywhere.”

“We can’t just wait here and do nothing!” Hetty said, her voice high with fear and frustration.

“I’m not saying that, either.” Ekkie measured her tone to project calm. “But we have to be smart.”

Ekkie got a hand on each child’s shoulder. “Hetty, you’re fast and brave. And Waylor, there’s the making of a mage in you. Your Ma says so and I think she’s right.”

“She does?” he muttered. “That explains the spell book for Yule.”

“Alright,” Ekkie said, straightening her back. She hadn’t felt this alive in ages, not since Dashma passed.  _ Funny how finding a stranger in the garden turns into the best thing that’s happened in years _ . “Hetty, I need you to run to lumin glade. Now careful not to disturb the lumins, but around there somewhere will be some tiny blue headed flowers. Pick a small handful and run back here. Can you do that, girl?”

“Yes!” 

Ekkie heard the door open. “Don’t pick lumins!” she called.

“I  _ know! _ ” Hetty yelled back, and then the door closed. 

“Waylor. My boy, pull up that chair close to the shelf. You see up top? There should be some of my Ma’s old spell books. You’re looking for one called  _ Incantatium for Beginners.  _ My Ma, she tried to teach me, but I never had much of a knack. ”

Waylor must have jumped from the chair, because he landed hard on the floor. “Got it. What now?” said his young voice, a little breathless.

“Now, my boy, we are going to cook something up.”

#

Clara and the Doctor pushed the horses into a canter once they hit the open road. Clara felt her cloak billow out behind her and her hair fly free. The Doctor’s horse matched Firebrand’s pace, although Clara imagined Firebrand would outstrip Poppy over a distance. The Doctor was a more graceful rider than he was a runner, Clara realised. She’d never seen him ride before yesterday, but she’d imagined he’d be all flapping elbows and wild legs, but in fact he could ride rather well. She supposed he’d had plenty of opportunity to practice over the centuries. There it was, another reminder that he wasn’t  _ like _ her. He had eons to fill, while she had just one little life. 

The Wayfarer came into view. They must have customers this time. There was a wagon stationed out front with a horse munching from a nosebag. Clara paid it little heed and led the Doctor down the side of the inn towards the stable yard at the back. 

“Phar?” she called, dismounting. The yard was silent. Clara passed Firebrand’s reins to the Doctor. “Here, hold him. I’ll go find Phar.”

When Clara walked into the inn, Phar stood stiffly behind the bar, one hand on the counter surface, his eyes wide. The shake of his head was so slightly she barely registered it. Immediately she scanned the room. Dwarves. Those same two from yesterday. Seated at a table with no beer tankards. Why come to a bar and not drink? Clara’s hand moved to her sword. Something behind her. She jerked around. A flash of red coat. In a blink of an eye, Clara unsheathed Faithkeeper.

A soldier, with a short scruffy beard, rushed at her with his sword drawn. 

Clara ducked so quickly he didn’t even have time to turn. She followed through with a boot to the backside that sent him sprawling towards the dwarves. 

A sheer giant of a man approached from her left. Clara darted towards the door, easily quicker than the lumbering man. 

The soldier with the scruffy beard regained his feet and rushed her. From the corner of her eye she saw Phar stick his foot out, and then whip it back again as the soldier tripped and fell. 

The big man held his great sword aloft, towering over her. As his sword crashed down Clara swung Faithkeeper up with force she didn’t know she had. The blades clashed. Clara followed through with her blade, up and over, wrenching the sword from the big man’s grip, hurtling it clean across the bar. In a heartbeat she had the tip of her blade pointed at his chest. 

“Back off!” she demanded.

“You might want to reconsider that,” came a calm voice. A soldier held a dagger to Phar’s throat. “Unless you want your pal here cut a new smile.”

Phar’s face was red, his eye twitching. He swallowed hard, glancing at the door to the living quarters, his jaw quivering slightly. She recognised that look. A scared man trying to be brave. Worried for his family but wanting to do the right thing. It was an impossible situation.

“She...she don’t know me, Havernack. She won’t care what you do.”

“Won’t she?” Havernack’s eyes were sharp and calculating.

It was a decent bluff. If Clara had a heart of stone, maybe she could have played it through. Challenge Havernack to kill the bartender and see where that got him. It might even work. 

Havernack shoved Phar towards the bar, grabbed his hand, and slammed it down flat on the surface. “Let’s start small, shall we?” he sneered. “How about this little finger?” His blade pressed to Phar’s smallest finger. To his credit, the barkeep didn’t make a single sound, but his face was taut with fear.

“Alright!” Clara exclaimed. “Let him go.” With sickness curdling her stomach, she lowered her sword. As she did, the red tunic of the soldier she’d disarmed moments before flashed at her side. The last thing she saw, before the huge man pulled a sack over her head and scooped her right off the floor, was two dwarves, laughing.


	8. Defending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get more and more dangerous for the Doctor and Clara. Ekkie, Waylor and Hetty are determined to help defend the people they care about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is rated T and up. Part way through this chapter there is a scene that may not be suitable for younger readers. As I know at least one young person is having this story read to them, I've placed a warning in front of this scene, and indicated where it is safe to rejoin, along with a brief summary of what happened in the scene. Please use your judgement on what you feel is suitable for your particular circumstances!

In Ekkie’s cottage, Waylor screwed up his face in disgust at a huge copper pan, steaming and bubbling like a witches brew in a fairytale book. He’d never seen anything like it and he’d definitely never _ smelled _ anything like it. He wanted to gag. 

“Go on,” Ekkie urged. “Your sister didn’t run all the way to the glade and back for you to stand gawping at the pot. It’ll be okay. Just say the incantation like we practiced when you sprinkle the fey-dust atop.”

Hetty had sprinted back from the glade clutching the delicate blue flowers. Ekkie roasted them in the small oven while Waylor and Hetty poured frantically over the spell book. Most of it made no sense at all. They’d read the pages aloud while Ekkie frowned and scratched her head. Finally, when they had stripped the crisp petals and ground them to a fine dust, the old lady declared with a sigh, “We’ll just have to try it.”

Waylor took a deep breath. Hetty shot him an encouraging smile.

He began. “Incantato osnimia an-”

Hetty grabbed his hand, and pointed again at the book. “No, it’s  _ am _ nesai...”

“Right, right,” he mumbled. 

“It’s alright, boy. Take your time.”

He nodded, but the room suddenly felt terribly hot. He was sure sweat was beading on his forehead. He bit his lip. “Amnesai, amnesai,” he mumbled, rolling the strange word on his tongue. Then he took another breath, straightened his back, and held the ground petals over the pot at arms length, which was bubbling green from the other ingredients he and Ekkie had pulled from her garden while Hetty was at the glade. 

“Incantato osnimia amnesai!” on the final word he scattered the petal dust. His fingertips flared red hot and he yelped in surprise.

For a moment, nothing happened. Hetty stared at him. They both went to step towards the pot to peer in, but Ekkie’s hands tightened on their shoulders. 

“Wait, my loves,” she warned. 

The pungent herby fragrance from the pot increased, and then there was a pop, and a flash of electric blue light filled the room. It stung Waylor’s nostrils, and made him blink as his eyes streamed. 

“Cor!” he exclaimed, hardly able to believe he’d done that. Quite  _ what _ he’d done, he still wasn’t sure, but his fingers were still tingling. Ekkie passed him a small jar.

“Need to get a few spoonfuls in this and then cool it down. It’ll want to be room temperature before ye drink it.” 

“ _ I’m _ going to drink it?”

“What, did you think we were going to ask the soldiers if they’d like to take a few spoonfuls? No. We’re going to use it to supercharge  _ you _ .” Ekkie grinned. Then her face twitched. “Bit unorthodox, I know. Professional Mage Association would probably have my hide, but with luck they’ll never know.”

Hetty was almost bouncing on the spot. “Can we supercharge me too?” 

Waylor’s jaw hung open, still trying to grasp what Ekkie had said. 

“Can we turn my sword to steel?” Hetty bounded across the room and grabbed her wooden sword. “Enchant this!” Hetty thrust her toy sword at Ekkie. 

“Wait, what do you mean,  _ supercharge _ me?” Waylor said slowly.

“Whoa!” Ekkie held up her hands. “Listen you two. Hetty, you’ll be a fine swordswoman one day. But right now we have to be crafty. There’s no getting away from the fact that us three, though we might be clever, and brave, and determined to defend those we care for, we are still a blind old lady and two  _ children. _ If I gets you both carted off to Lagradil gaol or worse, your Ma and Da will never forgive me. And right they’d be, because that would be stupid. We are going to be  _ not stupid _ .”

#

Honest Jack Havernack slammed the back of the wagon shut and clicked the padlock closed. He stashed the woman’s sword and cloak in the box at the back end of the wagon. 

“Them’s probably worth a fair mark,” Lightfoot observed.

Havernack shrugged noncommittally. They  _ did _ look top notch. The sword was in good condition, and the cloak, with its exotic clasp, was definitely sweet. He’d have that leather brigandine off her too before he handed her over. This was turning out to be the best day’s work he’d done in a long time, but there was no need to clue Lightfoot up too much.

“The old guy’s clothes don’t look worth squat, though,” Havernack said. “We’ll have to get rid of him. Don't want any complications. Talking of which, someone will have to deal with those dwarves.”

“Uh?”

Havernack sighed. Lightfoot was not the sharpest knife in the block, but that was what made him useful. Havernack stretched up to put his arm around Lightfoot’s shoulders. 

“Problem is, Lightfoot, those dwarves in there. They’re expecting a share of the reward.”  Havernack glanced at The Wayfarers upstairs window. A woman looked down, her arms crossed, staring intently at him and Lightfoot. 

“And these folk? Wouldn’t trust them not to go running to the Captain about this. Then where would we be?”

“In trouble?”

“In the brig, more like. I don’t want that. Do you want that?”

“No Jack. I don’t want no more time in the brig.”

“Right! So you go back in there, and sort it.”

“Okay, Jack…” Lightfoot’s slow face turned back to him. “Uh, Jack? How am I gonna sort it?”

Havernack drew in a whistling breath over his teeth. “Use your imagination,” he snapped, then he thought better of it. Lightfoot wasn’t exactly renowned for his imagination. Havernack pressed a small box of fire-starters into Lightfoot’s chunky hand, adding, “And maybe these.”

Lightfoot looked up at him, and grinned.

#

“Doctor? Is that you?” Clara said through a hessian hood. They were both chained by their hands to shackles just above head-height on the wagon’s wooden side. Somewhat gallingly, while Clara’s head was covered, his wasn’t, which he supposed meant they thought  _ she _ was a threat and he wasn’t. They were probably onto something the way things had been going lately. Not that he minded. Swashbuckling Clara could save him any day she liked. He hadn’t been joking when he’d said she was magnificent. But the situation baffled him. He didn’t even know why they’d been taken. One minute he was deep in conversation with Poppy, the next someone had lumped him on the head and he woke up chained in this wagon. 

“Clara. Are you hurt?”

“No. Just in the dark. Are you?”

“No. Not hurt, and not in the dark, either. We’re in the back of a wagon of some sorts. Who are these people?”

“Best guess,” she said,  “those dwarves sold us out to the Marquis.”

“Dwarves?”

“Yeah. Didn’t I mention them? They were giving me funny looks yesterday through their nasty little beardy faces. I should have known.” 

The Doctor tested his shackles. The oaf who’d shoved him in the wagon hadn’t taken his screwdriver out of his pocket, but with his hands pinned over his head, his chances of getting hold of it were zero. The wagon lurched forward, and then started to roll along the track through the forest. Every hole in the road jolted his backside on the wooden bench.

“Suppose they’re taking us to Lagradil?” Clara said. Her voice was high, nervy, and she yanked hard on her cuffs several times. “This is my fault. I should never have asked the Marquis to dance.”

“Well, you didn’t know he’d do this. Or about the terrible traditions here. If anyone is to blame it’s me. One day I’ll stop and research local customs before I step outside the TARDIS.”

A muffled laugh erupted from under the hood. “Like that’s ever going to happen. Which way they are taking us?”  

“I don’t know. I can’t see much. He peered through a crack between the boards making up the side of the wagon, but the passing trees gave no clue to which direction they were traveling. They sat in silence for a while.

“Doctor,” Clara said, as if she was making a deliberate effort to stay calm and distance herself from whatever silent fears were stalking her. “Talk to me.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Anything. Your voice makes me feel better.”

“It does?”

“Oh, don’t pretend you don’t know!” 

The Doctor frowned, genuinely perplexed. “About my voice?”

Clara made what he could only assume was a spluttering sound under the hessian hood. “You  _ are _ joking.”

“I’m really not.” He started to feel offended. “What’s so funny about my voice?” 

“Oh, Doctor. You are an idiot,” she said with a sigh. Then she added. “I like it. It’s a tiny bit sexy.”

Now it was his turn to splutter. “Come off it! My voice is not… what you just said.” He shifted in his seat, glad Clara couldn’t see his face flash hot with a furious blush. She was teasing him, she had to be. That wasn’t very nice of her at all.  

“You don’t have a clue, do you?” she said.

“Evidently not,” he scoffed. “Do you want to enlighten me?”

“Not really,” Clara fired back. Then she fell silent. 

She was cross now, he could sense that much. But what was that all about? Sometimes he thought he understood her and then she threw him a curveball like this. Was she saying  _ she _ found his voice sexy? Or that it had a general air of sexiness about it? What did that even mean? 

Irritation gnawed at him, twisting his face into scowl. “If you find my voice, ah,  _ sexy _ , then why did you go off dancing with the Marquis in the first place?”

“Because I was trying to make you jealous!” she snapped. “I know it was stupid on so many levels.”

“Clara--” he began, and then stopped. She wanted to make him jealous? What did  _ that  _ mean?  He tried again. “It’s not stupid on any level.” How could he explain the knot in his chest, the wanting and not-wanting? The desperate urge to hold her and yet keep her at a distance, because he knew losing her would already destroy him, and he was afraid of how much worse it would be if they got closer? But, if she’d resorted to dancing with another man to get his attention, then maybe it was time he started  _ paying _ more attention. “I’m not… I mean,  _ dancing _ isn’t something I tend to think about a lot.” That wasn’t exactly true either, she'd been breaking down his carefully constructed defences, and he’d been thinking about dancing more and more, lately.

“You don’t like dancing?” she said softly.

“It’s not that. I suppose... I mean there aren’t many people I want to dance  _ with _ . But…” He paused, uncertain whether to go on or to dodge back into an easy lie. Then, oddly, he thought of what Bennett told Lunn back at the Drum.  _ Tell her.  _ Sometimes people should say things while they have the chance. They were tied up in the back of a wagon, possibly on their way to their deaths. Now would probably be a good time.

“I’d like to dance with you,” he finally said, his voice lowering to barely a whisper.

“You would?”

“Probably be a bit rubbish,” he added with a tight laugh. “Might have to glance at a manual.”

At that moment, the wagon jolted to a stop.

“What’s happening?” Clara asked.

The back door opened. A man with a scruffy short beard and green eyes, but not the man who had lumped him, appeared in the doorway. 

“Ah!” the Doctor exclaimed. Now he was on safer territory. He could talk his way out of this. 

“Shut up.” The soldier snapped.

“Yeah, never been very good with the shutting up. I’m the Doctor, by the way. If you’d be kind enough to…” He was going to say ‘Uncuff me,’ but the soldier was already unclipping his cuffs. “Ah, good. Now we can talk…”

But the soldier grabbed his hand and cuffed it again. In seconds the Doctor was just as helpless as before. 

“What’s happening?” Clara demanded. “You better let us go!” She aimed a wild kick at the soldier, but he dodged it easily, and continued dragging the Doctor out of the wagon. He thrust him to the soggy ground outside.

“Clara!” the Doctor cried, on his hands and knees. 

“Don’t you worry about her,” the soldier sneered. “Honest Jack Havernack will take good care of her. I’d worry more about yourself. It’s Dead Man’s Cross for you.”  

The Doctor watched Havernack yank on a system of rope pulleys attached to a metal cage hanging from a tall wooden frame. The cage, resembling a giant birdcage, came crashing down. Havernack opened the padlock and let the door creak open, spilling a bare white skeleton onto the boggy ground, its head glaring sightlessly to the sky.

Havernack thrust the Doctor towards the cage, with his hands still cuffed behind his back.

“Hang on a minute.” Havernack jerked the Doctor to a halt, shoving his hand first in one pocket, then the other. 

The Doctor groaned. Sure enough, out came the sonic screwdriver. Havernack scrutinised it for a few seconds, and then chucked it into the nearby marsh. It lay for a moment on top of the mud, and then with a squelching burble, was sucked down into the wetlands. 

Havernack bundled the Doctor into the cage and snapped the door shut.

“Look, you might think it’s clever to leave me in here, but I assure you it’s a grave mistake.”

‘ _ Your _ grave.”

“Idiot!”  The Doctor snapped. “Where are you taking Clara?”

“To the Marquis, of course. She shouldn’t have run off. It’s tradition.”

“It’s a terrible tradition! You surely can’t believe it’s right for the Marquis to carry on like that?”

“Its  _ traditional,”  _ Havernack reiterated, as if that somehow explained everything.

“How would you feel if it happened to your sister?”

‘I don’t have a sister. And if I did, she’d respect our culture and traditions.” 

“Moron,” the Doctor snapped, despairing. He’d never get through the dense layers of this man’s stunted morality. “Just because it’s tradition doesn’t make it right. But you don’t care, do you?”

“Careful who you call a moron. I’m not the one sitting in a cage.” Havernack sneered as he strained to pull the ropes. The cage juddered its way up. “And it’s not my girlfriend going to the Marquis’ dark chamber.” 

“His  _ what?” _

“Don’t you know where she’s headed?” Havernack’s eyes were narrow and cruel, as if this was all a big joke. “The Marquis likes his toys. Don’t think  _ she’ll _ enjoy it, though.” Havernack laughed, a slow, grotesque laugh. It turned the Doctor’s stomach over. 

“You better let me out of here,” the Doctor warned, his voice low, anger seething in his chest. “You better hope not a single hair on her head is harmed.”

Havernack’s crooked teeth flashed in a mockery of a grin as he backed towards the wagon. “It’s not her head the Marquis’ is interested in. Oh, and give my regards to the fennicks,” Havernack said with a mock bow. “They usually like to drop by and investigate what’s in the cage.”

The Doctor rattled the bars in blind fury.

**Younger readers, or those currently sensitive to imagery around attempted assault, might want to skip past this next scene.**

**I will put ***** Rejoin the story here ***** when it’s clear to start reading again, along with a non-graphic summary of what happened in this scene.**

**#**

**#**

**#**

“Oi! Let me out of here!” Clara bellowed as the wagon moved away. No Doctor, no sword, and not even her cloak to take the chill off.

Havernack peered through the grill between the driver’s section and the compartment where Clara was held at the back. “My my, you’re a feisty one. I can see why the Marquis wants you back.”

“Look, I’m sure we can come to some arrangement. I—”

“The Marquis and me already  _ have _ an arrangement. Well, not an arrangement as such, but it worked out nice for me last time, so I reckon I’ll do alright this time.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know what the Marquis does with girls that avoid lawful selection?

“I’m sure you’re going to tell me.” She probably didn’t want to know, and she had no intention of hanging around to find out. She yanked at the cuffs again.

“He’s got a room. Hidden from all the saps who want to call foul on everything he does.”  

Clara’s throat tightened. She didn’t want to hear any more, but Havernack’s sneering voice continued. “He calls it his dark chamber. Sometimes he lets his friends in there too.”

“I suppose you’re his friend, are you?” 

Havernack let out a dry laugh. “Can’t claim that. But he did invite me, once, when I brought an avoider in. So. You be nice. What goes around, comes around.”

The wagon rattled on through the forest. Clara tugged at the shackles again, harder this time, a sickening dread curling in her stomach.

It was sometime later when Clara felt the carriage jolt to a halt. The back doors opened. Havernack again, she presumed. She felt the bag lift from her head. 

“Where’s the Doctor?” Clara demanded.  

“Dead Man’s Cross. You won’t be seeing him again. If the fennicks don’t get him, the boggruff will. Now. I’m not an unreasonable man. I believe fair is fair.” She could see his green eyes, feel his breath on her cheek. She pulled back as far as she could, but he had her pressed against the side of the wagon. He reached up and touched the inside of her arms. 

Clara shuddered at the invasion of her personal space, but he was undoing the cuffs. Unsure what was happening, she tried to shift sideways.

“Thing is, Clara, you’re right. I’m  _ not _ one of the Marquis’ friends. I don’t know he’ll let me in his chamber again, just because he did last time. I should probably take my turn now.”

“You have got to be kidding me,” Clara said, shoving him back.

He wasn’t a tall man, no where near as talk as the other brute in the bar, but he had that blade in his hand again. “I won’t hurt you,” he whispered, “long as you don’t fight me.”

“Keep your hands off me,” she snarled. 

Havernack just laughed. “Take off your clothes.”

“No. No way.” She looked around desperately for a weapon, anything, her brain not really wanting to process what was going on, but cold realisation clawing at her throat.

“Take them off, or I’ll slice them off.” 

Fear and fury swelled inside Clara. This couldn’t be happening. Not this. Heat welled in her stomach, rising through her chest and into her arms. Her fingers burned red hot. How dare he? In all her travels through the universe with the Doctor, no one had ever threatened her like this. Disbelief pressed against the reality of what was happening in a dizzying rush. 

Havernack took a step closer. 

She had nothing. Nothing to defend herself with but her fists. Except...Her hand went to the waistband of her leather britches, fumbling for the inside pocket.

Havernack smiled and took a step closer. “Good girl.”

_ Good girl? _ He thought she was doing as he’d told her! Hot rage razed through Clara, roaring from her core, through her feet, shaking the floor and traveling up the sides of the wagon. 

Havernack started at the juddering walls. “What the—” 

She gasped in surprise. Was  _ she _ doing that? 

Clara found what she was fumbling for in her pocket. The broken heel of her shoe. When they were running from the Marquis, the Doctor had lopped both heels off. She’d taken this one from his jacket pocket and put it in her own at Ekkie’s, and kept it there all through the battle with Baldor. She curled her fist around the sharp spike, with its tiny pointed tip. Never had she been so grateful for ridiculous shoes. 

“Whatever you think is going to happen here,” she said, “believe me it isn’t. Just stop now. Walk away.”

Havernack lunged at her. She dodged, but her feet got tangled with his. The knife flew from his hands. They sprawled to the floor, fumbling over one another until he pinned her down. 

Clara saw the knife from the corner of her eye, under the bench where she and the Doctor had sat. Havernack got his legs straddled over her, pinning her forearms to the floor. She couldn’t move. Heat and fear flooded her body. Time slowed. She knew exactly what he would do. He’d grab the knife and that would be it. She’d be faced with complying or getting her throat slashed. No one should have to make that choice.   

“Don’t,” she spat, anger squalling in her chest like a ball of fire, fuelled by fear and outrage. Her hand burned around the spike of the silvery shoe heel. The wagon trembled.  

Havernack grinned. “The earth moving for you already, love?” With his legs still pinning her lower body, he released her left arm and stretched for the knife. 

In that moment, she saw no other choice. Clara plunged the heel deep into his neck. The whole wagon shook. Yellow light flared, although she was never sure if the golden glow was real or in her head. It lasted only a split second. Then all she saw was red. Red on her hands. Red on her white shirt, spilling from Havernack in a sickening flood. She scooted back as he screamed and rolled, the sparkling silver heel still in his neck, blood pouring through his fingers as he fumbled to stem the flow.

Clara stared, hand over her mouth, transfixed. “Oh God, oh God,” she said, her throat clasping tight. Her head was spinning and she wanted to vomit. 

She couldn’t sit there and listen to his last breaths gurgling out. Clara scrambled to her feet, skirted around his prone form, and rushed from the wagon. Shaking and dazed she ran a few paces and then stopped. She turned back to face the wagon, gripped by an irrational fear he would rise and stumble after her. But in her heart she knew Honest Jack Havernack would tell no more lies. 

Clara rubbed her hand over her mouth, rocking very slightly on the spot, trying to decide what to do. She wanted that man’s blood off her hands. She wanted her cloak and her sword back. And more than anything else, she wanted to find the Doctor.

**#**  
  
**#**

**#**

***** Rejoin the story here *****

**(in the scene above Clara was threatened by Havernack. To escape she had no choice but to kill him with the heel from her shoe, which was in her pocket. She is badly shaken up, but has not been physically harmed or assaulted.**

 

Waylor clung to Ekkie for dear life. Hetty was behind him, giving the occasional whoop and not even holding onto him very hard. As Snuffkin swooped down into The Wayfarers paddock, Waylor risked opening one eye. Firebrand and Poppy were loose on the yard, still fully tacked up. All the way here he’d hoped they were worrying for nothing. That they’d roll up and Da would shout at them for ignoring his instructions, but it wouldn’t matter because nothing was wrong. But Da would never leave the horses loose and bridled in the yard. 

“The horses,” Hetty said, leaping from Snuffkin, “they shouldn’t be out.”

“Hang you on, Hetty Lambre,” Ekkie said. 

What Ekkie couldn’t see was that Hetty grabbed a pitchfork. She glared at Waylor when he raised his eyebrows, and put a warning finger to her lips. Waylor glanced at Ekkie, but he was secretly glad she’d done it. He’d much rather have his sister beside him with a pitchfork than a wooden sword.

“You should stay here, Ekkie,” Hetty said.

“Not likely,” the old lady snapped, “we go together or not at all.” She tucked the stick she’d carried all the way here under her arm and handed Waylor a small potion-filled bottle. “Drink up, boy.”

#

Inside The Wayfarer, Phar Lambre watched with a mix of horror and pride as the door from the kitchen to the bar finally opened. He’d known it wouldn’t be much longer before his wife came down.   

Gorrin Bloodhammer swung his pickaxe a third time at Lightfoot, the great oaf of a man who’d bundled Clara outside. Gorrin’s first blow had missed and stuck in the bar. The second had smashed a table.

Dorrin roared and jumped on Lightfoot’s back. “Ten gold pieces we’re owed!” Gorrin’s third blow smashed into Lightfoot’s legs. Lightfoot, who probably had giant blood a few generations back, staggered wildly. Both Dorrin and the giant tumbled to the floor. 

Molly Lambre, when she came out, stood a head shorter than her husband. Her sleeves rolled up, face shifting from astonishment to fury in short order, she bellowed at the dwarves.

“Gorrin and Dorrin Bloodhammer!”

The Dwarves turned to look at Molly, standing over them with her hands on her hips. “You should be ashamed to call yourselves Bloodhammers. Your grandfather fought in the Fell Wars. Dwarf with honour, he was. Earned the name Bloodhammer fair and square. Took down a boggruff and two ephwick’s with his War Hammer. He’d turn in his grave if he knew you two were smashing up innocent folk’s bars.”

Dorrin shot his cousin a sheepish look. 

Gorrin dusted himself off and stood up. “Innocent folk don’t aid  _ avoiders _ .”

“I’d help a hundred avoiders if I could. There’s plenty of folk would, these days.” Molly folded her arms. Dorrin and Gorrin glanced at one another, and Phar hoped for a moment they might back down. 

Then Lightfoot struggled to his feet, backing towards the door, with a firestarter in his big hand. Let that off inside and the place would be ablaze in seconds. 

“Don’t!” Phar cried out. From the corner of his eye, he saw something that made his blood freeze. His children, walking into the bar; Waylor pale, Hetty with a pitchfork, and Ekkie behind, tap, tapping her stick on the floor.

Phar stepped between his children and Lightfoot, his hands in front of him, his heart racing. He forced a light tone into his voice. “Right. There’s no need for any of this. Let’s just all take a breath, shall we?”

“Not likely! Him and his mate are cheating us!” Gorrin growled. 

Hetty tugged Phar’s apron and hissed, “The stranger, is she here?”

Phar’s heart wrenched. “No. The other soldier took her.” He grabbed Hetty’s arm. “Hetty, don’t--” he began, but she pulled away, swinging the pitchfork wildly. Lightfoot stood shaking his big head, looking from Phar to the dwarves, as if he wasn’t quite sure what to do. 

Hetty screamed and ran at him. “Where is she?” She struck him on the head with the pole of her pitchfork, so hard it flew out of her hands. Lightfoot reeled, staggered, but held his feet, making a low rumbling sound in his throat. He backed towards the door, fist raised to hurl the firestarter.

“Waylor, are you ready?” This was Ekkie, urgently tugging Waylor’s arm. 

Waylor, wild-eyed, his face red, muttered words Phar couldn’t understand. Phar had never seen him look so afraid and yet so determined.

“Aim tight,” Ekkie said. “You don’t want that spell going off wild and hitting everyone.”

Waylor nodded. He looked down at his hands, glowing yellow now. He began the incantation, with his fingers directed to the center of the room. “Incantato osnimia amnesai. Incantato osnimia amnesai.  _ Incantato osnimia amnesai! _ ” 

With a rush of wind, gold light zapped from Waylor’s hands. A dazzling whirlwind crashed through room, lifting mats off the bar and knocking over chairs. Phar grasped Molly’s hand, and it was all they could do to keep their feet in the swirling vortex around their son.

The light centering around Waylor formed strands, reaching like golden tentacles from his fingertips towards the soldier and the dwarves, gathering pace until the light hit their chests. Gorrin and Dorrin fell first, their dark eyes glassy and staring, and soon after the hulking Lightfoot crashed to the wooden floorboards, clutching his head.   

Waylor’s eyes were pure gold, his face contorted with pain, his hands and arms shuddering wildly. 

Slowly, the light began to fade. Waylor slumped forwards.

“Waylor!” Molly exclaimed, rushing to catch him before he collapsed. She lowered him gently to the floor. 

His heart racing, Phar ran to his son’s side. 

He looked up at them, smiling weakly. “Did they forget? Has it worked?” 

Molly looked like she was swallowing back tears, and Phar felt a lump in his own throat. He didn’t know exactly know what went on, but the dwarves were struggling to their feet.

“What happened?” Gorrin said. Dorrin was shaking his head, bemused. 

Molly whispered to Phar, “I always said he has the makings of a mage.”

“Uh? What’s going on?” The soldier rubbed his forehead as a trickle of blood ran down his temple. 

Molly took a step into the center of the bar. “I’ll tell you what’s going on, clear as the nose on your face, Barney Lightfoot. These two dwarves have wrecked our bar. And  _ you  _ are here to arrest them. Am I right?”

Gorrin and Dorrin looked at one another, confused. 

Molly marched right up to the soldier. “Officer! Do your duty! These ruffians belong in the Lagradil stocks.”

Still grasping Waylor’s hand, Phar held his breath. The soldier stared at Molly for a moment. He shoved the firestarter his pocket and grabbed a dwarf in each hand. 

“Right you are, Ma’am. You two. Disturbin’ the peace.” With that, he hauled the two dwarves out of the door.

#

With her eyes mainly closed, Clara dragged Havernack’s body out of the wagon and into the woods. She patted down his red tunic, and, with her stomach turning over, searched his pockets. She had to be practical about this. Who knew how long before they could get back to the TARDIS? If Havernack had gold, then Clara was going to take it. 

She found a small leather purse, and squatting on her haunches, opened it up. There were four gold coins and a few coppers inside, along with three ladies rings, one with a small red stone and two worn gold wedding bands, which Clara judged were very unlikely to have rightly belonged to Havernack. Little good any of it would do him now and it might just do  _ her _ a whole lot of good. The irony that she was worrying about stealing from a man she’d just  _ killed  _ wasn’t lost on her. She clamped her jaw tight. She’d had no choice.  _ No choice _ . Trying to ignore the queasiness in her stomach, she started to pull branches and leaves over his body. She wasn’t going to think about what might have happened. It  _ didn’t _ happen. She was safe. She had to focus now. But her throat clenched tight and her hands trembled.

Clara wiped the worst of the blood off her hands on the grass. She needed to put space between her and Havernack’s body, fast. Then she’d feel safer. Still shaking, she searched the wagon and then the trunk for her gear. The sense of relief when she found her cloak and sword forced her to blink back tears. These were  _ her _ things. With them, she’d have some sense of control again.  She took a breath and buckled Faithkeeper back about her waist, and pulled the cloak tight around her.        

#

The Doctor stopped rattling the bars of the ridiculous birdcage for a moment and looked about him. The wagon stealing Clara away had long since disappeared into the forest, leaving him alone, swinging in a cage hanging from a giant gallows-pole sunk into the ground. 

A large black bird, perhaps a raven, or worse a carrion bird, circled overhead. He could see why they called it Dead Man’s Cross. Four roads converged here, one leading deep into the forest and back to Lagradil, and two others presumably leading to different neighbouring towns. The fourth was a small track that wound across an area of wetlands, soon disappearing into the the tufty undergrowth. The sky was clear, the warm sun of the day fading as the afternoon wore on. The nights would be cold here. Of course, he could survive for absolutely ages like this; Time Lords took forever to die. It wouldn’t come to that. If he jerked and pulled the door for long enough, eventually it would come loose. He wasn’t concerned for himself, it was Clara he was worried about. Images of the dark chamber, too horrible to contemplate pushed the corners of his mind. She could look after herself, of course she could, but knowing that didn’t make the gnawing fear in his hearts subside. He jerked the bars again, yanking at the door near the lock mechanism. 

As he did, something dark-green slithered among the high tufts of marsh grass.

“Hello?” Nothing stirred in the boggy undergrowth. He was defenceless up here. The Doctor wedged his feet against the side of the cage, and pulled harder.

#

Molly followed Phar as he carried Waylor upstairs. “Hetty,” Molly called over her shoulder, “lock up, would you? No more customers today.” 

They quickly settled Waylor on his bed. “I’m fine,” he protested weakly, his skin still blistering hot.

Ekkie hovered at the end of the bed. “Course you are. But you’ve just channeled a third level incantation without so much as a day’s training. You need to take it easy for a bit.”

Molly stared at Ekkie. Part of her wanted to shake and scream at the old lady. Another part was bubbling with pride. She’d always thought Waylor had it in him. Every year at the glade she’d watched for signs that the veneficia spores were settling in him, and last year she was almost certain his skin had faintly glowed. He was almost the right age. 

Molly shook her head. “What did you do, Ekkie?”

“ _ I _ ran to the glade,” Hetty interjected, “and brought back some of those blue flowers. Then we made a potion. And Waylor drank it!” 

Molly blinked rapidly, while Ekkie coughed. Molly put a hand on the old lady’s shoulder. “It’s alright. Haven’t got much of a leg to stand on, have I?”

Ekkie smiled. “I suppose not.” She found her way to the edge of the bed, and put a hand on Waylor’s forehead. “We need to keep his temperature down.”

At that moment, Phar returned with a cloth and bowl. He put the cool cloth to his son’s forehead. Waylor murmured, his face red now, his fingers still glowing gold.

Hetty tugged Molly’s arm. “We have to help the stranger, Clara. Where did they take her?” 

Molly glanced at her husband before she spoke. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. Maybe they should stop now and be thankful their family was safe and their inn not a blazing wreck. But Molly never really had been any good at turning her face from injustice. She wasn’t going to start today.

Molly had watched the wagon roll down the road from the upstairs window. She knew where it was going alright. She couldn’t  _ not _ tell her daughter. “That wagon was heading to Dead Man’s Cross.”

“Not Lagradil?” Phar said.

“Dare say they want rid of Clara’s friend, the Doctor, before they try to sneak her past the captain and give her up to the Marquis.” Ekkie said.

“We have to do something!” Hetty clutched her wooden sword in her hand. “Da, Ma, please. We have to help her.”

“Reckon it ought to be me, then.” Molly said, straightening her back.

Phar gave Molly one of those looks, his lumpy nose turning to one side. It was the kind of look she loved him for, even after thirteen years and two children and countless hours of toil and trudge in this inn they somehow drained a living from. It said ‘I know what you’re thinking, and I might be scared, but I approve... just a bit.

“Reckon it does,” Phar said. 

“I’ll come too!” Hetty exclaimed.

Phar turned to Hetty. “You, young lady, are absolutely  _ not _ going. Bad enough to have one of you knocked out.” He glanced at Ekkie as he spoke. Molly knew he wouldn’t be quite so forgiving about the whole magic thing. She’d always suspected it scared him a bit, and now it looked like they had a mage in the family. Still, first things first. 

“Hetty, can you get Firebrand ready?” Molly asked her daughter. 

Hetty was more or less jumping up and down on the spot in agitation. “What are you going to do? Let me come too. I can take Poppy. You know I can!”

“Sorry love, your Da’s right. I need you to stay here and help him look after Waylor.” Molly took her apron off and hung it over the bedpost at the end of Waylor’s bed, trying to ignore the furious scowl on her daughter’s face. 

Molly hadn’t worn a sword in years. She’d tucked it away in the attic the day the news came that the army retook the Fell. Peace had returned to Lagradil that day, and she’d been glad of it. But just lately that peace left a bitter taste in her mouth. Women taken against their will for the Marquis’ pleasure. Clara was visitor to this land, who killed the beast that had plagued Brevnick for years. She was abducted from this very inn. Where would it stop, if Molly turned a blind eye? Who would be next, if she did nothing? Molly strapped her sword to her belt and pulled on her gloves. Today felt like a good day to defend freedom again.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone is still with me!?
> 
> Next: Clara and the Doctor face the terror in the marshlands, and Hetty has to decide if staying home and being not stupid is who she wants to be.


	9. The Boggruff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara and the Doctor are hounded by the viscous fennicks towards the terrible boggruff's lair.

Heart still hammering, a shaky Clara seated herself at the front of the wagon, gathered the reins, and urged the horse on. As the vehicle creaked forward she tried to push the image of Havernack aside, but flashes rose unbidden in her mind. His breath on her face. His blood on her hands. His eyes glassy and accusing as she hid his body. This was no good; she couldn’t let herself get swept away by the memories. She deliberately slowed her breathing until the wave of fear and disgust subsided and concentrated on the horse’s rear end in front of her, its tail brown and swishing, to give her something concrete to focus on. 

The jolting progress of the heavy horse along the forest track rocked her relentlessly. It was strange, though, how the wagon had shook just before...before she dealt with Havernack. It almost seemed like her rage was a live thing, spilling out of her body and into the wagon’s wooden walls. But that wasn’t possible, was it? She turned her hands over. They seemed perfectly ordinary. She’d be sure to ask the Doctor about it, just as soon as she found him. 

#

The black bird, a crow as it turned out, landed on the top of the cage and stared at the Doctor with mocking coal-black eyes.

“Care to take a look for my sonic screwdriver? That idiot threw it somewhere in the mud over there.”

The bird cawed twice and flapped away into the marshland.

“Thought not,” the Doctor grumbled. An hour of kicking and pulling at the cage door had little effect on the surrounding metal bars. He shifted his weight and discovered that he could rock the whole contraption a decent way forward and back. Perhaps, if he built enough momentum, the whole thing would crash to the floor and crack open. With a series of grunts, he lunged from side to side. The wooden bar above his head began to creak, the rope pulleys holding the cage vibrating. Abruptly, the rope freed. The cage plummeted down and then crashed to a halt. The Doctor flew towards the top in a sickening lurch and then was sent sprawling to the floor.

The cage was now suspended halfway down, with the gantry pole at an awkward angle. The Doctor groaned, rubbing his eyes. He really was getting a bit tired of this place. He’d be glad to leave. If he could ever get out of here and find Clara.

Something caught his eye moving in the marsh. A figure crouching among the reedy grass made a low hiss. It wasn’t humanoid, exactly. It had webbed feet and stubby arms, and it’s skin was a dull, muddy green. A fennick, he presumed.

“Hello?” he called.

Its eyes were large and round. As the Doctor spoke a frill of leathery skin expanded around its face. 

“It’s alright. I’m friendly,” the Doctor said cautiously. The creature bared rows of tiny sharp teeth, and raised its webbed hand. Long claws flashed at the end of its fingers. The creature turned sharply towards the woods, where a wagon,  _ the _ wagon that had brought him here, appeared on the track, the big horse lumbering along at an alarming rate. He squinted at the driver. Black cloak. No sign of a red tunic. Not Havernack then. When he turned his attention back to the marsh creature, it had vanished.

As the wagon rumbled nearer he recognised Clara driving. Just how many times would she have to rescue him this week? Not that it mattered. He was just glad to see her safe, although as she drew closer he noticed she wasn’t smiling.

“Are you alright?” she said as she pulled the wagon to a stop in front of the swinging cage.

“I’ve had better days. You?”

“Same,” she said.

“Where’s that idiot Havernack?”

Clara paused. “I left him by the road to Lagradil. I presume you haven’t got your sonic screwdriver, or you wouldn’t still be in there.”

“Havernack tossed it into the mud over there. But be careful, there’s a fennick around here somewhere. Teeth and claws. It didn’t look friendly.”

Clara drew her sword and spent a few minutes searching for the screwdriver, but came up blank. He supposed it was gone forever, sucked into the bog. 

With a look of grim determination on her face, Clara moved the wagon closer to the cage and then leapt effortlessly on top.

“What are you going to do?” he asked in some alarm, as she drew her sword and raised it.

“Stand back. Ekkie told me Faithkeeper is enchanted. If the cause is just, then Faithkeeper will help me win.”

“Okay, but you might jar your shoulder--” he began as she swung the blade at the lock with a fury that surprised him.

The metal clashed, steel on steel, flashes like hot metal in a foundry flaring in the air. The sword rebounded from her hand. The gantry supporting the cage made an angry creaking.

The horse whinnied in fear and dashed forwards, sending Clara lurching backwards. The sword flew from her hand. 

“Watch out!” The Doctor yelled. The cage door flung open. He tumbled out, flailing wildly, with the heavy metal cage close behind him.

He grasped Clara and dived aside as the cage crashed onto the wagon. The horse screamed in terror. They were falling, rolling, tangled together as the wagon splintered. The shafts attaching the horse sheared under the tension. The second the horse was free, it bolted. The Doctor tried to keep both he and Clara on their feet as they landed, but they tumbled to the ground. 

He began laughing as he tried to disentangle himself, for he’d landed more or less on top of her. She wasn’t laughing. She shoved him away, her eyes flashing with something dark. Not anger, exactly. Panic.

“Get off!” She sat bolt upright, her body tense, breathing fast.

“Okay, sorry,” he said, sitting up, unsure what was wrong. “Are you hurt?”

“No. No, I’m fine, just give me some space.” After a moment she smiled, a small, tight smile. For a second he entertained the strangest thought: that she might cry. He put his head on one side, questioning, unsure what he was supposed to do. 

She sniffed. “Really. I’m fine. Are  _ you _ hurt? How long were you in there?”

“A couple of hours. Since you left. Are you sure--”

“I told you I’m fine. Lost track of time, that’s all.” Clara stood up and paced the short distance to where her sword had fallen and scooped it up.

The Doctor stood up too, brushing himself off, still watching her. “Alright--” he began, but his sentence was cut short by a flicker of movement in the reedy grass. The creature was back. 

This time Clara saw it too. “What’s that?” She raised her sword, preparing to lunge.

“Marsh-dweller I guess. Didn’t seem particularly friendly before, but let’s not jump to conclusions.” Clara looked ready for a fight, which bothered him. He grasped her arm. “No need to kill it. Let’s just leave them to it,” he whispered. “This is their home, after all.” 

He caught a flicker of movement behind him. Two more fennicks circling, blocking the way to the Lagradil road. He turned to face them, hands raised palm up in a friendly gesture, although a cold chill ran down his neck. With Clara so jumpy this could easily get out of hand.

“We’ll just be on our way. Back to Lagradil.” He pointed at the road in what he hoped was an inoffensive manner. 

A fennick curled a rubbery lip back, showing teeth, and then it hissed. 

The Doctor glanced at Clara. Her face was set in a determined scowl, her sword held tight.

Two more creatures emerged from the marsh to the left. He and Clara found themselves backing towards the pathway deeper into the marsh. 

“Do we fight?” Clara’s voice was tight, her jaw set.

“Rather not, when we could run,” he said. The rows of razor sharp teeth would tear flesh, but those webbed feet didn’t look like they were built for speed. Perhaps he and Clara could cut through the marsh and join the Lagradil road closer to the trees without shedding any blood, fennick or their own. 

“Alright.” Clara thrust her sword into its scabbard, but kept her hand on it. They headed onto the vegetation choked path at a run. 

The telltale squelch of webbed feet followed. 

#

From the side window of the bar, Hetty watched her Ma gallop out on Firebrand. No amount of pleading had changed her mind. Ma had strapped a sword--A sword!-- onto her belt, while Da continued to care for Waylor, and neither explained a single thing about where it came from, or how she had a helmet and gloves hidden away in the attic.

“It’s not fair!” Hetty complained to Ekkie. “Where did she even get that stuff?” 

Ekkie shook her head and pressed her lips together, as if she wasn’t going to answer. Eventually she said, “Don’t worry. Your Ma knows what she’s doing.”

“My Ma knows how to shoe horses and fix leather britches. Not rescuing!” 

Ekkie let out a sigh. “You know about the Fell Wars, don’t you?”

“Of course. Everyone does. The Battle of Giants Bane. Our troops pushed the Mage King back to the Hinterland.”

“Well, thing is, your Ma…” Ekkie hesitated. Hetty was afraid she wouldn’t say any more. But she had to! She couldn’t say  _ that _ and not explain. 

“I’ve told you about my Aunt Gresweld, how she stole the Mage King’s cloak? And killed an elphwick?” 

Hetty nodded.

“Your Ma was just a girl when the war began. Her Ma and Pa, your grandparents were killed in the first incursion. Your Ma, she ran to my Aunt’s battalion. They sent her home, but she kept going back. So in the end they kept her, as a mascot like. Let her clean the swords and charge the firesticks, and she learned to fight. Gresweld said that by the time she was fourteen she could swing a sword as well as a trained soldier. When the war was over, she came home and never spoke of it. Not like Gresweld, who couldn’t hold her tongue if her life depended on it.” 

“So those were  _ her _ things?” 

Ekkie nodded. “I dare say. So don’t you worry. Your Ma will find Clara.”

Just then, Da called for Ekkie. Hetty followed her up the stairs, and stood watching the two confer in hushed voices at the end of Waylor’s bed. After a few minutes, though, she slipped away. She couldn’t believe it. Her Ma in the Fell Wars. Fighting giants! Why did she never say? If Hetty did anything brave, she would never  _ stop _ talking about it. Ma must have been no older than Hetty was now when she ran away. But that was years ago. What if Ma wasn’t as strong as she thought? What if the boggruff at Dead Man’s Cross came out? What if Ma needed help? A plan formed in Hetty’s mind. A plan that made her tummy trip with fear and excitement. She grabbed her sword. Then she thought better of it, and went to the yard to find the pitchfork again. Snuffkin, poking her snout into the bucket of kitchen scraps Hetty had found for her earlier, her long wings tucked neatly away at her side, looked up as Hetty approached. 

Hetty held out her arm. “Hey, girl,” she whispered. “Fancy a trip to Dead Man’s Cross?”  

#

The Doctor’s boots squelched as he and Clara ploughed through the soggy ground. Thick vegetation either side of the twisty track obscured the view, but it was clear to the Doctor they were not, as he’d hoped, veering towards the forest and Lagradil, but traveling deeper into the marsh. The light was beginning to fade. Of course it was. What else did he expect on this planet of dark forests and rogues? 

“Doctor, we need to get back in that direction,” Clara said, slowing down. 

She was right. The ground got boggier with every step. The splattering of webbed feet sounded behind them. 

Clara had barely spoken as they ran, although she didn’t seem out of breath at all. She wasn’t flagging physically. He thought again of those strange readings he’d detected in her when he’d scanned her at the glade. It was like her cells were supercharged. But what did that mean? Surely this couldn’t just be the lick of regeneration energy. He had the feeling she could outpace him easily if she needed to.

The bushes, thick with elongated yellow leaves edged with wiry red hairs, thinned a little. There was a gap, narrow enough to squeeze down. 

“We could try through there,” Clara said. “Perhaps they’ll pass by and we can double back,” Clara didn’t wait for him to answer, she just pushed ahead into the gap. Carefully, he followed her through. She slashed at branches blocking their way with her sword. Without warning, she turned abruptly, as if she’d heard something. 

She grabbed his arm and pulled him down. “Something’s close.”

They crouched together in the boggy ground, cold water seeping through his boots. Overhead, the sky had turned inky red, clouds with black edges dotting a bloody sky. There were no birds, nor the chittering of small animals as there had been in the forest. 

Clara scrunched her cloak up tight about her, to stop it dragging in the muddy ground. There was a stain on her shirt collar, a splotch of red as deep as the sky. He reached out his hand towards the mark.

“Are you hurt?” He whispered, worried that the cage had caught her as they fell.

She pulled the cloak tighter around her. “No. It’s nothing.” She touched his hand lightly and offered him a thin smile. “Really, I’m fine. Please don’t worry.”

“How did you escape from Havernack?” 

Even in the fading light, he saw her face darken. She whispered, “Does it matter?” 

“I don’t know, does it?” he echoed.

She shook her head, her face tight, as if that wasn’t the thing she needed to hear. A hollow feeling stole into his chest, from not knowing the right thing to say. He so much wanted to get things right with her and yet he had the feeling he just kept getting things wrong. He didn’t know  _ what _ to say next. It was almost a relief when she put her finger to her lips, and seconds later, just beyond their hiding place, the marsh creatures hissed.

The footsteps slowed, pausing close by. Clara seemed wound tight, her sword poised, her body ready to spring. There was something in her eyes he didn’t recognise. He’d worked hard to decipher her facial expressions, and while he didn’t claim to have them all worked out, he wanted to understand her. That was the thing with Clara; she made him want to do better.  _ Be _ better for her. Right now he felt like he was messing things up. He wanted to curse, and probably would if there had been time, but a long, drawn out hiss, and an answering hiss, so close he could almost feel the air move, filled the air. The bushes quivered. Sharp claws, at the end of a webbed hand, pushed through the leafy cover. In the distance, from deeper in the marsh, there was a rumbling roar. 

Clara crouched low, coiled like a spring, eyes flaring, ready to strike. 

#

Hetty had never felt so good. Heart racing, wanting to laugh out loud, she and Snuffkin soared along the road leading to Dead man’s Cross. Her Ma was a hero! All these years with a real sword hidden away in the attic and she’d never said a word! Hetty gripped the pitchfork tight with one hand, and held onto Snuffkin’s saddle with the other. The sky ahead over the Brevnick Marsh became deep red, dark clouds gathering on the horizon. Hetty could just see a chestnut red horse-- her Ma and Firebrand-- galloping on the road ahead.

In the distance she heard a low, shuddering roar. 

The boggruff was stirring.   

Her Ma wasn’t going to like it, Hetty realised, and Da would be really mad. But Hetty wasn’t going to miss this, not for anything. 

# 

“Clara!” the Doctor exclaimed. She threw herself at the fennick. In a blur, she sent it reeling backwards. The Doctor followed her onto the wider trail, and once there, paused to weigh up their best course of action. Behind them, the creature sprang to its feet. Clara hadn’t hit it with her sword, merely thrust it aside. While the Doctor didn’t much fancy running towards that terrible roar, their choices were limited by the two marsh dwellers behind them. Ahead, beyond the tunnel-like track down which they had run from Dead Man’s Cross, the marsh opened into an area wetlands interspersed with small islands of grass. Perhaps they could make their way across one small island to another and then veer towards the woods. 

Clara seemed to be thinking the same thing. “This way? We don’t want to run right towards the boggruff or whatever that is.” 

They set off towards the open area. Sword in hand, Clara leapt over the puddle to land on the first island of grass. He landed beside her and surveyed the landscape. The islands dotted through the wetlands varied in size from couple meters wide to a space it would take a half a minute to run across. 

The great roar bellowed again, making the still water ripple in concentric circles, spreading, making the dark waters seem a living thing.

“We need to go that way,” Clara said, and then cursed under her breath. 

Between them and the woods three more marsh creatures began springy leaps from grassy island to island. Nowhere to go but deeper into the boggy landscape. 

Clara’s face pulled tight into a frown. “It’s like they’re herding us.” 

The Doctor peered ahead grimly. Clara was right. Question was, herding them toward what?

#

Molly leaned low over Firebrand’s neck as they raced along the track. She would pay the price with a sore backside in the morning, but there was no denying the thrill of galloping headlong on the open road. Why didn’t she do this more often? She didn’t have to wait for someone to need rescuing before she took Firebrand for a blast. She should start riding out again properly. Take Hetty on Poppy, to make up for the disappointment of being left behind today. Show her daughter a few tricks. Perhaps it was time to start being a bit more open about her past. It wasn’t that she was ashamed: she’d done what she had to do. But the war belonged to another time, another life. She wanted her children to  _ be _ children. She heard the thump, thump of wings. When she glanced up her heart nearly jumped out of her chest. 

“Hetty!”

Snuffkin swooped overhead and onwards to Dead Man’s Cross. Firebrand took that as a challenge. Ears flat to his head, he picked up speed. Molly couldn’t believe it. That girl was in a whole world of trouble! But a smile found its way to her lips. She couldn’t help feeling a little proud.

#

The next leap was wider than the last, and the murky water below gave no clue how deep it would turn out to be if they misstepped. The last jump had been a stretch, even for the Doctor’s long legs. They were pinned on three sides, now, and the creatures were getting ever closer. 

“Ready?” Clara said. 

There wasn’t much space for a run up, but he nodded. “Let me go first.” Before she could object he took two long strides and launched himself into the air. As he hit the ground he tried to kill his speed before he tumbled straight over and into the dank water. Clara was already in the air as he turned. The whole island shook as another terrifying roar bellowed out. Clara landed a pace closer to the edge than he had, and experienced the same problem of needing to dampen her momentum. He yanked her back before she plunged into the surging water. 

She turned in his arms, and clung to him for a moment, looking into his eyes. “This is bad, isn’t it?” she said in a small voice. 

He couldn’t lie; it was bad, and he said so. “But,” he added, gasping her hand, “we’re not done for yet. Let’s keep going.”

On the left, the pursuing marsh people were just two knolls away. To the right, fennicks were sliding from the grassy bank into the water. On the small island closest to the Doctor and Clara, one big web-footed creature crouched, ready to launch itself into the air.

The next bit of land was further away than any of the previous jumps. “That’s a long way,” Clara breathed, sheathing her sword. 

He grasped her hand. They would leap together. If she went in the water, then he would be at her side. He would always be at her side, no matter what. There was nowhere else he would rather be.     

Clara nodded, her face set with determination, her eyes more beautiful than ever, yet laced with a vulnerability he hadn’t seen before. Despite his pact with himself never to kiss her first, he was seized with the incomprehensible impulse to pull her closer. This was hardly the time, his rational mind pointed out. If they got out of this, maybe, they should sit down and talk. How many times had he almost told her how he felt but shied away at the last minute? How many chances had he already lost? Because one day it  _ would _ be too late. He just hoped that day wasn’t today.

Hearts pounding, he squeezed her hand tight. “Together.” 

She squeezed his hand back, nodding. “Always. Together.” 

They edged backwards to the far side of the knoll for a run up, took three perfectly matched paces, and sprung into the air over the water. 

#

Hetty guided Snuffkin down into the clearing at the edge of the marsh and scouted the area. Dead Man’s Cross was a pile of mangled wood and metal, and there was a busted up wagon, with no sign of the horse, scattered by the base of the Cross. Hetty was glad it was broken. She’d heard plenty of terrible tales of folk hung in that cage, without food and water, at the boggruff’s mercy. Even though she was only twelve she was pretty sure not all of them deserved it.

“Hetty Lambre,” came her Ma’s stern voice. “What part of ‘you are not coming’ did you not understand?” 

Hetty pulled her lips taut. “I had to!” She motioned to the tracks leading into the marsh. “Look at the footprints. Clara and her friend were here. And it looks like fennicks were out too.” Hetty pointed at the webbed footprints among the human’s. “You must have heard the boggruff hollering!”

Ma dismounted. While Firebrand threw back his head and snorted, she strode up to Hetty, with a disapproving look. “You may be right, but--”

“I  _ am _ right. You’ll never get Firebrand on the marsh. You know what the fennicks will do. They’ll chase them right into the boggruff’s lair!”

Molly scoffed. “And I suppose you’re going to tell me  _ you _ need to take Snuffkin and get them out.”

Hetty folded her arms and looked defiantly back at her mother. “Snuffkin will never carry you and them, and you know it. It  _ has _ to be me.”

For a long moment, Hetty thought her Ma would argue, but in the end she just crushed her with a hug. 

“Faith knows, girl,” Ma whispered, “you’re just like me.”

#

The Doctor and Clara hit the small scrap of grass hand in hand. She kept her feet well, while he wobbled and faltered, but she held onto him. 

“Okay?” she asked.

“Fine,” he said, looking around. The fennicks on the nearby island didn’t make any move to jump to this one. Of the two that had slipped into the water, there was no sign.

“Hm. What are they doing?” Clara wondered aloud.

The two nearest creatures also slipped into the water and vanished. The water here was still and smooth, although murky, but a deep rumble set the surface rippling. The ground tremored. 

“Uh oh.” Vibrations travelled up the Doctor’s legs and seeped into his chest, while a shattering roar filled the air. With a shower of water, a long, dark tentacle flicked up from the wetlands. It crashed down into the grass beside them, flinging mud and grass all around. 

The boggruff was awake.

Clara snatched her blade from its sheath with a bright  _ shiiiiing _ , a sound he was getting disturbingly familiar with. But he had to admit he was glad of it. They stood pressed close, back to back on the small grassy island, the sky above covering the wetlands with a blood red shroud. The wind and rain pricked his skin, but there was something undeniably exhilarating about being here, with her, like this. He probably shouldn’t be enjoying it so much. 

“I’m sorry I got you into this,” Clara said.

“What do you mean?” he yelled back. He  _ wasn’t _ sorry, and she didn’t have to be either. But he had no time to speak.  Another tentacle slashed towards them, skimming the ground, its end razed to a sharp point. “Jump!” he yelled, leaping to avoid the lash. He landed heavily, crashing down on his knees. Clara hauled him up again.  

A cascade of spray splashed towards them. A dark-skinned mountain rose from the swampy waters, many thick tentacles lashing. Its mouth wider than the Doctor was tall. Its lower jaw extended, with a row of javelin-like teeth, each longer than the Doctor’s forearm, all set in a flesh-red maw. When it roared, it was like hell was opening. 

Boldly, Clara stepped in front of him. “Doctor, run,” she said. 

“Absolutely not!”

“Don’t argue!” she yelled. 

He stared at her. What had he done? How did a petite English teacher end up this way? She’d always been brave. More and more that slipped over to recklessness, and now she was acting as if she was invincible. She definitely  _ wasn’t.  _

“I don’t take orders, Clara. You know that. I’d never leave you,” he said, a little incredulous that she would even ask.

“Maybe you  _ should _ .”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he yelled, anger building within him.  

“It means I have a bloody sword and you should run, you stubborn old man!” 

The ground beneath their feet shuddered. Clara raised her weapon, her face shining gold. “Go!”

From her left, a tentacle flailed their way, and the Doctor yanked her to one side. The towering creature blasted a roar so powerful he felt in his chest. The monster might have terrifying teeth, but it had no eyes the Doctor could see, and its lashing tentacles seemed to have little coordinated aim. He could use that to his advantage.

“I won’t leave you!” he exclaimed, using his momentum to duck them both clear. How could she think he ever would?

Clara seemed furious. “Then we’ll both die!”

“Don’t you know? I’d  _ rather  _ die than leave you!” 

She stared at him, incomprehension clouding her face. Her eyes burned into his. “Would you?”

How could she question it? He’d die a billion times for her. Then it hit him. He thought she must know how he felt, but she really  _ didn’t _ . He’d never told her. Not once. He’d used clever words to shroud his meaning when he should have spoken plainly. He’d told her things like ‘duty of care’ when he should have said ‘I love you.’

He had a lot to put right. 

The boggruff’s long tentacle slashed the ground, throwing up a shower of muddy grass and murky spray. The swirling waters around them stank. Twisting eddies of particulate gave off a putrid smell of decomposed vegetation. 

“Oh Clara, we have a lot to talk about.” His words were drowned by the beast’s mighty roar, blasting foul air into their faces, knocking them backwards. 

Clara raised her sword, and in the late afternoon sun it seemed to him, although it was scarcely credible, that her skin was shining, glowing a magnificent gold.

The boggruff roared again, a mountainous dark head that was all red-raw mouth and blind rage, its teeth sharp as daggers. A blast of foul air rushed them, and Clara held her sword aloft, her skin gold in the evening light. “I told you to run!” she screamed at the Doctor. 

“I told  _ you _ I won’t!” he hollered back. Did she really think he would leave her? That she hadn’t earned every last second he had to give her? 

“You’re an idiot!” she declared.

“No argument there.” Their eyes met for a moment that seemed to stretch into eternity.  Without warning, one of the boggruff’s long arms curled around Clara, yanking her up to its gaping maw. The ground shook. Clara plunged her sword deep, again and again, into the curl of flesh surrounding her. A terrible squeal ripped from the creature and its grip slackened. 

Clara landed hard, one knee bent, one hand on the ground, her sword still in front of her. The wounded tentacle flung wildly, lashing towards the Doctor, sending him tumbling backwards towards the water. 

The great maw snapped downwards at Clara. Her whole body glowed, fire bursting along her arms and down through her sword until she was a phoenix in the flames. The ground shuddered beneath her feet. For a terrible moment the fear gripped him that he’d contaminated her with regeneration energy back in the cave when he healed her. But she wasn’t changing. If anything she seemed more  _ Clara _ than ever before. Bold and brave and  _ furious. _

Clara brought her blazing sword up under the boggruff’s fleshy jaw and pierced its throat. A mighty flash flung her back. The horizon shook. The boggruff roared, long and terrible, and crashed into the swirling dark waters. The Doctor clung to the side of the grassy knoll as waves swelled around him. He lost sight of Clara. Hearts pounding like drums in the schism, he dragged himself back onto the island. He looked desperately for Clara, tried to call her name but his words were drowned by the crashing water.  He crawled forward, pulling himself through the filth. Where was she? He couldn’t lose her, not like this. She had to be here!

Darkness stole the light away too quickly. He could barely see, but he forced himself to his knees, something hot and frantic driving him. She must be here! Then he saw her, lying still, her body twisted awkwardly in the mud. He flung himself to her side.

“Clara!” Her skin was cold and her eyes shut. Something broke in him then, a primal anger, starting deep in his soul and flinging outwards, a rage spinning out of control. He clutched her prone body to his chest, his own breaths coming in racking sobs. He was too late. He was a fool. He’d had a second chance and wasted it. The regret poured off him in waves, rocking his world and the ground under him.

Pieces of him shattered. How had it ever come to this? Every time he dared to care, in the end, he lost. He’d told her once that immortality isn’t living for ever, it’s everyone one else dying. The tithe of love was pain. This was why he  _ shouldn’t _ .   

Then, he felt her body convulse. He wasn’t sure at first if it was the ground quaking, but then she sucked in a violent snatch of air, once, then again, and again after that. He looked at her, hardly daring to hope.

Her eyes flickered rapidly and then opened. “Doctor?” she said weakly.

He kissed her head, unable to speak. For a moment he just pulled her close, choked.

Her voice was barely more than a whisper. “Is it gone?”

“I think so,” he said, but even as he spoke he saw fennicks in the distance. Fennicks on the next island. Fennicks in the water. Surrounded.  “We have to go.”

He urged her to her feet, but she could hardly stand. He got his arm around her waist. Her sword fell from her limp hand to the ground. She looked for it, dazed, and tried to lean down, but her balance was off. She could barely stand. She was in no fit state to fight. 

“I got that,” he said, straining to scoop the sword and hold her at the same time. But which way to go? The fennicks were everywhere, hissing, angry teeth and bared claws. 

Then the channel in front of them erupted in a cascade of filthy water. The enraged boggruff exploded from the depths.

The Doctor clutched Clara tighter. Nowhere to go. He thought of picking her up and running, but it would give them seconds at best, even if he could jump to the next island before the fennicks ripped them to shreds. He pulled Clara to his chest, her small body seemed so delicate now, rage drained from her, her big brown eyes the only thing he could see. The only thing that mattered. If his long life was going to end, then perhaps this wasn’t the worst way to go, with her in his arms. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry for getting you into this. Sorry I wasn’t a better man. Sorry for never being brave enough to tell you--”

Clara stared, glassy-eyed, over his shoulder, and said something he couldn’t understand. She jabbed her finger wildly behind him. Then he realised she what she was saying: ‘Snuffkin’. He spun them both around.

The little dragon-pig, for she seemed small next to the might of the boggruff, was gamely putting down on the island. The Doctor didn’t recognise the girl screaming at the top of her lungs to get on, but he didn’t need to. In two long strides he and Clara were by Snuffkin. He launched Clara upwards behind the girl and leapt on behind Clara. 

A fennick had made it to the island, its webbed feet slithering across the mud. It threw itself at the Doctor’s leg. He aimed a sharp kick at its midriff. Claws plunged into his calf. 

The boggruff snapped its head toward Snuffkin. The dragon-pig lurched upwards with a squeal. The Doctor kicked the fennick again and this time sent it sprawling backwards.

Snuffkin’s wings beat the air in a frantic rush as they rose-- painfully slowly it seemed-- clear of the island. The boggruff lashed a tentacle up into Snuffkin’s belly. Without thinking at all, the Doctor thrust the sword in his hand down into the beast’s limb, and then yanked it free. Clara wobbled as he did. He thrust the sword into her sheath and focused on holding her as Snuffkin climbed over the marshes, under the blood red sky, back towards Dead Man’s cross.

The girl called down to someone on a horse-- it looked like the one Clara had been riding-- and they lurched down to the ground. 

“Hetty!” the rider, a woman in armour, exclaimed. 

“I did it, Ma!”

The woman beamed. Then glanced at Clara and turned to the Doctor. “She doesn’t look well. You better get her home.”

“Look out, Ma!” Fennicks poured from the marshes, swarming towards them. The red horse reared, his front legs kicking the air. 

“Go!” Hetty’s Ma yelled. “I’ll see you back home!” She gathered her horse and set off at a gallop as Snuffkin rose above the hissing fennicks.  

Then they were away, over the forest, the air rushing cool into the Doctor’s lungs, his fingers curled around Clara’s tummy, her back to his chest, his face in her hair, and all he knew was that, somehow, yet again, he and Clara had cheated death. Second chances. He didn’t often get them and now he’d been blessed with another. It was about time he started getting things right.     

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Back at The Wayfarer, Clara and the Doctor finally get the chance to talk about things that need saying.  
> Also, they discover more about Clara's new-found powers.


	10. At The Wayfarer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor and Clara finally have some time to process recent events, discover more about Clara's new powers, and find out a few things about each other.

Clara woke in the Wayfarer. At least that’s where she guessed she was, with a carousel of blurry faces drifting in and out of focus, voices swamping her then fading into far-off echoes. The world seemed to shift in lurches and jolts. Ekkie’s face. The Doctor’s hands. A child’s voice. Heat. Intolerable heat, burning behind her eyes and in her chest, sizzling her toes and fingertips. Then the coolness of damp cloth on her forehead and his voice, always his voice. She latched onto the soothing smoothness of his tone, even when she couldn’t grasp the words—his voice was a comfort in the dark, an anchor in the dazzling brightness when she opened her eyes. Her thoughts were a jumble: the marsh fennicks with their sharp claws and teeth, the terrible boggruff’s lashing black tentacles. Havernack, his breath hot and leering, and then his empty eyes and her own red-stained hands. It all merged into a confusion of the boggruff’s roar and flashes of fiery gold light. Clara drifted in and out of that state for an indeterminable amount of time. 

When she woke fully, the Doctor was holding her hand, dozing in a chair by her bed, chin on his chest. 

What exactly happened in the marshlands? She remembered the boggruff and its horrifying jaws, the fennicks, the stink, the deafening roar, and then plunging her sword into the beast with a blaze of gold light. Now, her whole body felt raw, her limbs heavy. She groaned in confusion and pain.    

The Doctor stirred, his face radiating concern. “How do you feel?”

“Wiped out. Like I’ve been zapped.”

“I think  _ you  _ were doing the zapping.”

Clara closed her eyes again. “What happened?” she whispered. 

“How much do you remember?”

“Running from the fennicks. That enormous tentacle monster trying to eat us. Then I hit it with my sword. It’s a bit hazy from there. How did we get back here?”

“Your young friend Hetty got us out on Snuffkin,” he leaned forward conspiratorially. “I think you’re her hero.”

Clara sniffed at that. “I don’t feel heroic.” She was in a warm bed, wearing a soft white gown that was far too big. Part of her wanted to bolt back to the TARDIS, get away from this planet and never come back. Another part wanted to disappear under the bedclothes and stay there. With a flush of shame at the thought, she turned her face away from the Doctor.

“You did great,” he said, giving her hand an encouraging squeeze. You were amazing. Magnificent, even.”

Clara forced a brittle smile. “What was that gold zapping about?”

He chewed his lip. “I’m not sure. I’ve been talking to Ekkie and we think perhaps--and this is just a guess-- by using regeneration energy on you, I made you receptive to the veneficia spores. That seems to have…” he paused and twisted his face a little, “...that’s triggered what people here refer to as magic. Latent abilities usually get activated when a youngster hits puberty. But...I’m sorry. We don’t know what effects it’s having on you.”

Clara sat up in her bed. “What?” She  _ had _ been feeling different since that night in the forest. She could hear more, run faster, jump further. Did that explain the blast of gold light when she struck the cage with her sword at Dead Man’s Cross? And later, when she hit the boggruff? What about how the wagon shook when Havernack attacked her? That thought made her stomach twist anew. His blood on her hands flashed again into her mind. 

The thought that had plagued her since she left Havernack’s dead body in the Dark Forest crashed back: what would the Doctor think if he knew? Would he understand the position she’d found herself in? She’d killed a man. Not failed to save him. Not watched in horror and grieved afterwards. She’d deliberately plunged a spike in Havernack’s neck and let him bleed out. 

Shuddering, she searched the room for her shirt. Had the Doctor seen it stained red? He’d disapproved when she’d wanted to kill that fennick back at the marsh. Could she pretend it was her own blood? But someone had stripped her off and cleaned her up--one of the women she hoped--and likely told him she wasn’t injured. Her skin might not be broken but she wasn’t sure how intact her soul was. 

The Doctor was talking again. She had to force herself to focus and not get dragged back into the horror in her head.

“Clara, we need to talk.” He looked edgy, nervous even, and that made her throat tight and her head pound. She wanted so much to make him proud, to be a force for good in the cosmos just like him. To be her own version of the Doctor. But she’d hadn’t done that here. She’d messed things up. She’d brought the Marquis after them with that silly stunt to get the Doctor to notice her. And now she’d killed a man. The Doctor would have found another way, wouldn’t he? He was going to be disappointed. She didn’t think she could stand it.

Clara shook her head, as if she could shake the emotion out. She was close to tears but desperately didn’t want to cry. “I’m pretty tired,” she said, her voice cracking. “Can we talk later?”

“I suppose.”  His eyes betrayed a flicker of hurt before he added, “Yes, of course.” 

He stood to leave, his ageless eyes sad and heavy. She wanted to call out to him. She wanted a hug. She longed for him to hold her and absolve her from the guilt clinging to her like a shroud. But her words died in her throat. Instead, she watched him leave. Once the door closed she stared up at the ceiling for a long time, wishing, hoping, that she could find a way to feel okay again. 

#

“How is she?” Ekkie asked the Doctor, as she tap, tapped her way into the kitchen.

“I’m not honestly sure. She seems a bit...off.” He wished he had his sonic screwdriver so he could scan Clara again. Better yet, get back to the TARDIS and do a full work up of her genome and really find out what’s going on. In the meantime, though, he’d asked Hetty and Ekkie to bring all the magic books Ekkie owned over to The Wayfarer. Phar had turned a bit green at the suggestion, but Molly persuaded him they needed to know what was going on with Waylor too, so the books were brought. The Doctor and Hetty had spent the last couple of hours pouring over them. Ekkie’s initial explanation had been a fairly good one as it turned out. Latent magical ability was triggered by inhaling the invisible veneficia spores that drifted across Lagradil from places like the lumin glade. That’s why most new abilities were first noticed in spring. As far as he could tell, it was a bit like hayfever, the end product being magic instead of streaming eyes and runny noses. By using his regeneration energy he’d cracked Clara’s DNA open for the veneficia to effectively hack. 

The trouble was, any young person who showed signs of latent magic here in Lagradil would quickly be assigned a mentor to help them discover their particular affinity and learn to control their powers. Phar and Molly were already talking about who might work with Waylor. The Doctor hoped his speed read through Ekkie’s books would be enough to help Clara channel her powers. He hoped she’d  _ let _ him, and not push him away.  

#

After more time had passed than Clara could track, feeling numb and then churned up and every state in between, Molly ventured into the room with a tray of food. Clara sat up. She’d probably been in bed long enough.

“Molly, you are so kind. I should get up. Where are my things? My shirt…”

“Phar’s cleaned them up for you.”

“Oh.”

“What’s wrong?”

Clara’s face twisted and flinched. “I didn’t want...the blood. Did he say anything to the Doctor?”

Molly perched on the side of the bed. “I don’t know. When Hetty and me cleaned you up I was afraid you were cut, but I don’t think it was your blood, was it?” Molly squeezed her hand gently. “What happened, love?”

Clara shook her head. Wanting to speak but afraid to, trapped between the need for comfort and connection and an awkward kind of shame that she didn’t really understand. 

Molly’s eyes were grave, but kind. “Did Havernack hurt you?”

“He tried,” Clara said. “I didn’t let him.”

“Thank faith for that. When I watched him take you off in the wagon I was afraid…”

Clara put her hand to her mouth, bile rising in her throat, the image of Havernack’s glassy dead eyes burned into her memory.  She choked, her eyes squinting almost shut. 

When she spoke her voice was a cracked whisper. “I killed him. I should have found another way, but I killed him.”  

Molly shook her head. “You did what you had to do to protect yourself.”

Clara could barely speak. She tried to blot the images of Havernack, dead and alive, out of her head. “My friend, the Doctor,  _ he _ always seems to talk his way out of things without having to...do what I did.”

Molly said firmly, “It doesn’t matter what anyone else might have done or not done. It was  _ you _ facing... that. Not the Doctor. And, well, I’ve seen him these last few hours by your side. I don’t think he’d blame you for defending yourself, not for a minute. And you mustn’t blame yourself either...”

“I should have found a way…” Clara insisted. The blood on her hands sickened her. 

“Don’t do that, love. Don’t take that man’s wrong as your own. There’s only one person to blame and that’s Jack Havernack.” 

Clara sniffed, unconvinced. The Doctor always found a way to beat the odds without having to stab someone in the neck. Her eyes must have given her feelings away.

“Listen,” Molly said,  “If it was me telling you this, what would  _ you _ say?”

Clara closed her eyes and spoke quietly. “That you were right to defend yourself. That he deserved it.” 

Molly nodded. “Yes. I’m not saying killing someone doesn’t weigh on you like a millstone, because it does.” Molly’s eyes became distant. “I faced the Mage King’s army. I killed on the battlefield. I remember every single one. But I forgave myself. Because I was defending something that mattered. So were you, Clara.  _ You _ matter. Your safety, your body. It  _ matters _ . Anyone who tries to violate that should face the consequences. Whoever they are.”

“Even the Marquis?”

“ _ Especially _ the Marquis in my book. Him doing what he does makes the likes of Havernack think it’s alright to behave appalling. But things are shifting. Word is, the new captain of the guard is making changes. Even the Queen has stopped defending the Marquis lately.”  

#

Later that evening, the Doctor returned to Clara’s room, an old leather-bound book under his arm. At first he thought she wasn’t there. Then he saw the curtain billow at the window and realised there was a narrow balcony beyond. Clara stood leaning on the rail, looking up at the sky. She had the white shirt on again, and a pair of light trousers, rolled up at the legs, which Molly had described as ‘pre-twins’ when she’d dug them out of the attic. 

He left the book on the bed and hesitantly drew back the curtain. “Can I come through?”

“Of course.” The moon was a thin crescent in the sky, stars studding the blanket of velvet above, as dark as the cloak Clara clutched in her hands. With a shiver, she slipped it around her shoulders. She didn’t speak, she just continued to look up. The silence stretched between them like a silver thread, a delicate thing. He was loathe to disturb it. 

“I wonder,” she said eventually, “if one of these stars is Earth’s sun?” The moon gave her hair a silver tint. Her face was shadowy and unreadable. 

“Feeling homesick?”

Clara looked at him then, her eyes expanding into his, cracking him open. He wanted to reach out to her, tell her, really tell her what was in his hearts, but his hand remained limply at his side, cowardly and uncooperative.

“How do you do it?” she asked. “Always win?” There was a bitter edge to her voice he barely recognised. 

He shook his head, surprised. “I  _ don’t _ . You know that. I mess things up all the time.”

Clara turned her head away, as if she couldn’t bear to look at him. That small gesture stung. It was as if she didn’t trust him any more.

“Have I upset you?” he said, feeling wretched. “Whatever I did, I’m sorry.”

“It’s not you, it’s me.” 

The hollowness amplified. Wasn’t that some kind of code humans used when they were trying not to hurt the other person? He didn’t understand at all. He wanted to understand, and he wanted the pain in her eyes to stop, because it was like a dagger between his hearts.

“Clara, nothing you could have done would--”

“I killed him!” she exclaimed with a sudden rush, her voice cracking. “Havernack, he was trying to force himself on me and I killed him with the heel of my bloody shoe of all things!” She blurted out, close to crying, but holding back. 

The world turned a shade darker. As he tried to process that sentence, his hands snatched into fists. “He did what?” he said, his voice low, simmering with barely suppressed rage.

“He didn’t  _ do _ anything, because I  _ killed  _ him.” Clara spat the words.

“Did he hurt you?”

“Are you even listening?” She threw her arms up in exasperation. “The whole wagon shook and suddenly I had all this strength, so I stabbed him in the neck. He’s dead!” She was trembling, her eyes brimming with tears.

“Thank god you did.” 

“What? You never...I mean,  _ you _ always find a clever way out of things.” 

The distress washed off her in waves. Worst of it was, the thing bothering her most was what  _ he _ thought. That was wrong. Just wrong.

“Don’t do this to yourself, Clara,” he begged, his hearts aching at her tortured expression. Is this what he did to people, make them want to live up to impossible standards? Rory accused him of something similar once, years ago now. He said he made people want to impress him and that was dangerous. Perhaps he had been right. 

“ _ You _ never would have…” Tears filled her eyes. She leaned into him, her body a bundle of tension, as if she needed something, connection. Reassurance? A hug. She liked hugs. Was that what she needed? Still fearful he would get it wrong, he drew his arms around her and pulled her towards him. She let out a small breath.

Now he had to find the right words, to let her know she wasn’t wrong to kill Havernack, and that he would have done the same. It seemed terribly important to get this right.

“Never underestimate what I would do to protect you,” he said, and he meant it more than he’d meant anything in a good long while. “Never doubt I’d kill a man who was foul enough to hurt you like that.”   

He felt her small body wrack with sobs he knew she was trying to stifle. 

“He didn’t, he didn’t, but I was scared. And angry. He pinned me down. Then the wagon was shaking and I felt so  _ strong _ . I don’t really understand what happened.”

“What  _ happened _ was you protected yourself. That’s all that matters.” His throat was tight with disgust. He rocked her until her sobs subsided. 

“It’s alright. I’m alright,” she said after a while. “It’s just, I’ve never felt like that before. So strong. Like when I busted that cage with my sword. And the burst of fire on the marsh? I don’t understand what’s happening.” She relaxed against him, her hair soft and smelling of the shampoo she’d borrowed.

He grasped for the right words. “We’ll work it out, together.” She looked up at him, her eyes hopeful.Perhaps he’d finally said something right. 

“Promise?” she said.

He wiped a tear away with his thumb. “Cross my hearts.” He pulled her close again until her tears subsided. 

After a while he said, “I do have a theory.”

“I hoped you might.” She sniffed and looked up at him with trusting eyes, waiting to hear what he had to say. That look melted his hearts, because he needed her trust. Her faith. It made him a better man.

He inclined his head towards the book on her bed. “Shall we take a look?”

She shot him a small smile. “Okay.” Stepping back into the bedroom, she took a perch on the bedside. He hesitated for a moment, and then sat next to her. She flicked through the leather-bound book’s thick pages.  

“Perhaps...” he began, uncertain how to say something that went against everything he knew, but there was no other way to put it. “You seem to have picked up something like…” he paused again. It was no good, he’d have to come right out and say it.  “... something like magic from this place.”

_ “Magic?”  _ she exclaimed, with an amused look. 

That expression was much better than tears, so he continued, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “I know. I’m not saying it  _ is _ magic. I just haven’t got another explanation for the way some people here manipulate the laws of physics.”

“O...kay,” she said, grinning a little now. “I’m all ears.” 

“I think we can learn how to channel it.”

“We can? How?”

“I can help you focus the energy your cells are producing. A bit like the way I can control my regeneration energy.”

“I didn’t think you  _ could _ control regeneration. I asked you not to change, before, and you couldn’t stop it.”

“I can’t do anything if it’s been triggered by my imminent death. But in between times, well, I can control it a bit more. Like I did the other night.” He grinned. “Judging by what I’ve seen, that energy release happens when you are really angry or scared?”

“I suppose so.”

He rummaged through his pockets, took out a ping pong ball and placed it on the bed between them. “Lets see what happens if we focus your energy towards an object. Give me your hand?” He took her small hand between both of his own. She gave a small gasp and so did he. He let her hand fall to the bed. When their fingers touched he felt the brush of her mind, a dynamic joined space. A warm glow spread through his body.

He pulled back. “Ah...that was…”

“Nice,” she breathed, blushing. Then she turned her face to him uncertainly. “Wasn’t it?” 

“Unexpected,” he whispered. “But not unpleasant.” It had been a rush of pleasure, if he was honest, but he didn’t quite know how to process it. So many feelings assailing him in such a short space of time!

She smiled. “Perhaps a little like...dancing?”

“A little,” he agreed. He picked her hand up again, tentatively this time. The warmth was back, fizzing through him, but he tried to focus on the ball, nudging her attention in that direction. He didn’t want to poke about in her psyche, or delve into the warm place he sensed behind her eyes, or explore the affection he sensed rolling off her in waves. If he let himself go there he might never resurface. Vibrations began in his fingers, moving to his chest, faint, but regular, pulsing like a live thing. There was power there, growing in her, guided by him. 

“Let’s try to move the ball,” he suggested.

“How?”

“Visualise it moving.”

He felt deeply connected to her. Joined in a paradoxical state: separation and fusion. His whole existence cracking and reforming in a moment. Himself yet entirely  _ her _ . Eternal and fleeting; the infinite void and a civilisation packed onto a pinhead.  A mountain and a dust mote. Rock and waves, a pebble tumbling over Niagara Falls. He was the great grey owl swooping towards a mayfly. Infinite and fleeting. The healer and the teacher. Blood of ages and a dash of starlight. Ravages of time and the freshness of a single bloom. 

She was trying to tell him something very important. yet she wasn’t. She was hiding the truth away. Hiding from the truth. Paradox. 

A flash of her heart: she wanted him to be proud of her. 

With a flash, the ball was gone. 

In its place was a small purple flower.

He stared at her, a little incredulous. She blinked at him, looking decidedly fuzzy-headed, which was pretty much how he felt, grasping at the emotional turmoil raging in his heads.  

“ _ That’s _ unexpected,” she gasped. “Did we just change a ping pong ball into a flower?” 

He picked it up, still dazed from the fusion of minds. “So it would seem,” he croaked. He fumbled another white ball from his pocket. 

She sagged a little on the bed, her whole body slumping. Perhaps once was enough for a first outing. Undecided, he went to put the ball back in his pocket. 

“No, it’s okay,” she whispered. “Let’s try again.”

She closed her eyes and let her hand rest above the ball. He slid his fingers over hers, weaving their hands together. At once the warm glow was back, tingling his fingers and sending a flutter of pretty chemicals around his body. He immediately felt a pang of guilt at the pleasure racing through his body. 

“It’s alright,” she said gently. “I don’t mind. I like it.”

She knew. They were joined, intricately, the deep well of her affection rushing over him in waves, pushing at his mind, wrapping itself around his hearts. Something flared between them, powerful and raw. 

The ball changed. This time it became a perfect replica of the TARDIS key. 

Her eyes fluttered open and closed. A small gasped escaped her lips. “Is that…?”

He picked it up and turned it over. Perfect in every detail. For all he knew, it might be a working key.

“How?” she said, swaying on the bed as if she was drained.

He didn’t answer for a moment. He moved the book from the bed, worried she’d topple over and onto the floor.

“Hey, lay down,” he suggested. “You look wobbly.” 

She gladly complied, letting him cover her with the blanket. “Just tired. What did we do?” she murmured.

“I think we rearranged matter at the atomic level.”

“Oh? No wonder I’m tired,” her voice slurred into sleepiness, but still she reached out for his hand. “Stay with me.”

“Of course,” he said. Questions. He had so many questions.     

What had they just done? Had they become a psychological composite of human and Time Lord? With the literal power to change objects? The hybrid of prophecy? Surely not. Beside that head-spinning prospect, had Clara seen into his hearts the way he’d seen into hers? He saw what she needed. She wanted him to be proud of her. And more, so much more. 

He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I  _ am _ proud of you, Clara,” he whispered. 

She didn’t open her eyes, but her lips turned into the faintest of smiles. He sat quietly watching over her for a long time as she slept, a much more peaceful rest than before, her face relaxed, serene, beautiful.  He turned over and over in his mind what he’d seen in hers: She  _ wanted _ him to love her. That was what he wanted too. 

So why did it scare him so much?

#

Clara woke, alone in a bedroom with bright morning light streaming through a crack in the curtains, memories of last night teaming in her mind. Had she really done that? Transformed an object into something else? On the small stand by her bed, side by side, were the small flower and the key. She sat up, and took both in her hand. The flower head had wilted a little, its petals soft and crumpled now. She turned the key over in her hand. It looked just like the TARDIS key. How was it possible? What did it mean? When the Doctor had taken her hand she’d felt the same power as she felt when she struck the boggruff with her sword, but much more controlled, as if his mind was guiding her. His mind! His thoughts had washed over her in waves, his admiration, regard, and deep caring. How deep she didn’t know. She brought her hand to her chest as she remembered his complicated feelings. Wanting and not wanting.

He was ancient and yet brand new, this Doctor, yanked from the end of one set of lives into another. He’d expected to die on Trenzalore. Part of him had been glad, expecting the final chapter to close in a glorious blaze of fire, and for him to end protecting people he cared for, doing something that mattered. Because he regenerated looking into her eyes they were already fated: last night they merged in a different way. They’d have to talk about what that meant sooner or later. 

Clara wondered, as she quickly dressed, if she had the power to change objects by herself. She focused her mind on the small flower and tried to turn it back into a ball. Nothing. She hadn’t really expected it to work. Something fundamental changed when the Doctor’s mind had fused with hers. They were more than the sum of their parts. With him, the churning power she’d felt was honed to a point. She hadn’t  _ intended _ to change the ping pong ball into a flower, but somehow it became an expression of her will, a hybrid of their making.

Clara hurried down the stairs, eager to find the Doctor and explore what else they could do together.  _ Be _ together. If he was willing. After what she’d seen of his intentions, she had to conclude he was willing. That thought left her in a happy bubble of excitement.

Molly and Phar were busy preparing breakfast and setting up for the day’s business. The aroma of frying mushrooms filled the kitchen. At that point, Clara realised just how hungry she was. It seemed like days since she’d last eaten a decent meal.

“Morning, love,” Phar said, looking up from a frying pan. “How are you feeling?”

“Much better, thanks.”

“Your Doctor’s helping Hetty and Waylor with the horses,” Molly said. “Could you be a love and tell them breakfast in five minutes?” 

Voices reached Clara before she saw the Doctor, atop a hay bail, waving his arms wildly, roaring, imitating the boggruff while Hetty swooped towards him, flying on an imagined winged beast, yelling, “Take that!”

Waylor grinned and prepared to cast a spell, his fingers flaring. 

“Whoa,” the Doctor cautioned, jumping to the floor. “I think you better save that until you’ve had a few lessons in...whatever.” 

He spotted Clara. For a moment, he seemed to flush, and looked shyly away, before walking over to her.

“Your mum said breakfast is ready,” Clara called to the twins.

“How are you feeling?” the Doctor asked. 

“Good,” she said. “You?”

“Hmm, yes,” he replied vaguely, his eyes following Hetty and Waylor as they tore towards the back door.

“What we did last night. It was...intense,” she said. He looked up at her then, his faded blue eyes meeting hers. She wondered if he’d felt what she felt when they joined minds. Did he see into her heart?

“I’ve been thinking about that,” he said, with a bashful look. “We should practice some more. Get control of whatever powers you have. Could be very useful if we run into the Marquis again.”

He was so close. He must surely hear her heart hammering. “That sounds like a good idea,” she whispered.

He took her hand, raising it between them, holding it close to his chest. They were trapped in amber, locked in each others eyes. For a moment there was nothing else,  nowhere but his stormy blue eyes and questioning smile. She wanted to do a hundred things; to tell him she loved him more than anything, to press a kiss to his lips, to touch his hair, run her fingers through his curls and discover at last if they were as soft as they looked. They couldn’t go on for ever ducking and hiding, dancing around each other. How many second chances would she let flash past? 

“Doctor.” She breathed him in, felt his mind entwine with hers, supplementing her raw power with his Time Lord training and discipline.

“Relax,” he said, although he looked far from relaxed himself, his eyes wide and staring, fidgeting and on edge. He had something in his hand. She had no idea how, but a red yo-yo had suddenly appeared in her palm, and his fingers were joined under hers. “Focus on this,” he said. “Can you imagine it into something else?”

Clara imagined an apple, red and green, from one of the orchards she used to walk past as a child, bursting with Coxes, rich with the aroma of honey. She felt the warmth of his mind, and this time the feeling didn’t drain her, it trickled down her fingertips and towards the little red toy. 

With a small flash, an apple sat on her palm. “Oh,” she exclaimed in delight. It felt like a gift, a power coming into bloom, with his help. Impulsively, she stretched up on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek over their joined hands. “Thank you.” The only other time she’d kissed his cheek had been after the dream that brought them back together.  _ This _ felt like a dream to her now. He leaned in and pressed a fleeting kiss to her lips, so light she almost believed she imagined it. But not quite. His eyes were too real, his lips too soft, his hand cool and steady under her own. No dream could make her heart race this furiously.

“We’re a paradox, you and me,” he murmured. “We really shouldn’t work; human and Time Lord. Look at us. But we just do, don’t we?” He paused, as if he was working up to saying something very important. Then he whispered, “I can’t be without you, Clara.”

Something fluttered and flared in Clara’s chest, in her throat, racing hot into her mind, aching and bittersweet, utterly raw, and yet the most beautiful feeling she’d ever known. Her fingers tingled again, and now the apple was gone. In its place sat a delicate hummingbird, its wings iridescent blue and green, blurred and lovely in the sunlight. Clara gasped as the tiny bird rose and landed, just for a moment, on her head, before darting away across the paddock. The Doctor stared, wide-eyed. Even he, immortal time traveller, could be awed by striking colours and elegance. Her breath snatched, the energy between them suddenly crackling like a live thing. His eyes flicked to her lips. He drew a breath. 

With a gentle sigh, he leaned in to kiss her again. 

“Hey!” came a girl’s voice. “Ma says breakfast’s getting cold!”

His breath leached from him in a deflated shudder, his hand resting on her shoulder, poised halfway to kissing her.

Clara let out a breath too, pressing her forehead to his for just a moment. “Hold that thought,” she said, in a breathy voice. “We’ll pick this up later.” She turned to Hetty. “We’re coming!” 

Clara squeezed his hand tight, and hand in hand, they scooted back towards their friends inside The Wayfarer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you might remember in the summer Jenna Coleman posting a comment on social media about a hummingbird landing on her head. Well that little idea worked its way into my story!


	11. How Many Moths?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara and the Doctor explore their new-found powers further, and make plans for the dangerous return trip to the TARDIS. Also, there are moths.

The Doctor sat down at the breakfast table beside Ekkie, his head still reeling from the brief kiss he and Clara had shared moments before. We’ll pick this up later, Clara had said, meaning, he supposed, she’d either kiss him again or slap his face. He was ninety five percent sure it would be the former. She was smiling, anyway. He might be an idiot, but he wasn’t a fool, and that kiss felt real, more a promise than a question. He’d seen into her heart and for better or for worse he saw desire there. All he had to do now was not mess things up.

“Doctor?” As Clara said his name, he realised the conversation had moved on from one egg or two, to what he and Clara planned to do next. Clara nudged his knee gently with her own. “Ekkie, Molly and Phar have been so kind. But we can’t ask them to put themselves in danger again for us.”

“Who’s asking?” Ekkie said. “It was us telling you that we want to help, unless I’ve gone deaf as well as blind.” 

Molly put a plate of buttered bread on the table and sat down. “We’ve come this far. We won’t abandon you now.”

The Doctor glanced at Clara. Smiling as if she welcomed the offer of help, she said, “We need to get back to the marketplace in Lagradil town. Our...vehicle  is parked there.”  

Molly raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure it will still be there? I mean, people will take a wagon that’s not secure…”

He and Clara glanced at one another. “It’s not that kind of vehicle. It will still be there, don’t worry about that. Once we get inside we’ll be fine.”

Phar sipped his tea and then placed the mug down, measuring his words carefully. “The way I see it, there’s a few problems. We don’t know what Lightfoot and those dwarves will remember and that might make trouble. Soon enough someone will miss Havernack and start searching for him. The Brevnick road could be swarming with guards before long. And Clara,” he turned to her as he spoke, “the dwarves said there were posters of you all over Lagradil. You can’t just march into town.”

“Okay…” Clara glanced the Doctor’s way, pressing her lips together. The very thought of the Marquis and his dark chamber sent a shudder through him.

“Me and Snuffkin could scout the road ahead, and warn you if any soldiers are coming,” Hetty said, throwing her arms up in excitement. She’d hardly touched her bacon and eggs.

Phar’s face twitched. He tapped Hetty’s plate. “Eat your breakfast, love.” 

“Da...” Hetty began.

Phar glanced at his wife and then sighed. “I suppose she could...If Ekkie agrees?”

Ekkie gave a cracked laugh. “O’course I agree!” 

“How do we get them into town, though? In disguise?” Waylor asked, piling a second fried egg into his mouth.

Phar rubbed his hands briskly over the ever-present apron covering his legs. “Well, Marco Delany has an arrangement with the harbour keeper to supply the port. His wagon goes in and out at odd hours. Perhaps he could smuggle you into town?”

“Would Marco agree?” Molly asked.

“Oh, he’d agree,” Ekkie said. “I saved his leg after a Lagradil doctor he’d paid half a fortune to told him he’d have to lop it off.”

Molly snorted. “I remember. He’ll help if you ask him.”

Ekkie grinned. “That’s settled then. I’ll go right after breakfast.” 

“Hark at you, Ekkie,” Molly said. “You’d hardly been out of your cottage all year, now you’re virtually arranging an insurrection.”

Ekkie sniffed. “Got me wings back now, haven’t I?” The Doctor knew it was more than that, though. He’d seen it plenty of times; folk fading when they felt they had nothing left to achieve, nothing to get out  _ for _ . 

Ekkie had a purpose now and being blind wouldn’t hold her back from fulfilling it. “Ack, I’m not arranging no insurrection. But do you know who I think might be?”

Molly nodded. “Captain Blamwitch. Word is more than one avoider found her way onto a ship out of Lagradil thanks to the good captain.”  

When the children had finished their breakfast, Molly cleared her throat. “We’re going to need lookouts today, to warn us if any soldiers head this way. Are you two up to it?”

“Yes, Ma!” Hetty exclaimed, leaping to her feet, Waylor close behind her. 

Molly grabbed her son’s arm. “Look, we’ll get you set up with Mistress Beasley to learn the craft. But until then, no fooling with magic, alright?”

“But Ma--”

Phar took on a serious tone. “No buts, son. I know you’ve been reading Ekkie’s books, but that’s no substitute for a mentor in practical magic.” 

Waylor slumped and scowled, and the Doctor judged the likelihood he’d abide by that particular parental injunction vanishingly small.

“Go stake out a spot,” Molly urged, “and keep your eyes peeled.” When the two children had left, Molly turned to Clara. “I’m sorry to have to ask this, but...what about Jack Havernack’s body. If it’s found it’s going to cause problems.”

The Doctor felt Clara flich at his side. Her lips pressed tight together. “Ah...I covered it. But probably not well enough,” she said in a hoarse voice. He found her hand under the table, and took hold of it. Her appreciative glance signalled this small action was part of not messing things up. He noted that for future reference.

Molly’s face twitched. “I’m sorry...I can help you deal with it, if you need me to?”

The Doctor cleared his throat. “It’s alright. We can do it.” He didn’t want this good family implicated any more than they already were. 

Clara nodded in agreement, probably thinking the same thing. “No need for you to get involved. We’ll go now.”

“Take the horses,” Phar said, “And be quick as you can.”

Ekkie stood up too, grabbing her stick from its place beside her chair. “I’ll go talk to Marco.” She flashed a grin. “I hope you two like cheese.” 

#

Clara and the Doctor quickly tacked up the horses. Firebrand seemed to sense Clara’s tension, snorting and fussing as she tightened his girth. Someone had cleaned Faithkeeper--Phar Clara guessed-- and she was grateful for that as she strapped the sword to her belt. The Doctor had been silent since breakfast, but she’d appreciated him holding her hand. And the kiss. She’d definitely appreciated that heart-jumping kiss. If only they had time to explore things together. 

The Doctor tied a shovel onto a bag and strapped it on his back. “Do you remember where you were, when...it happened?”

“I think so.” When Clara had emerged from the wagon, she’d been in a clearing at the forest’s edge. She’d hauled Havernack’s body past some bushes and a rocky outcrop. She just hoped she’d remember it when she saw it again.

They rode out in the early morning sun, setting an urgent pace to minimise their time on the open track. It seemed too bright, too lovely to be contemplating such dark task, but Clara couldn’t think of a single thing to say to lighten the mood. She just wanted this to be over. 

She reigned Firebrand in a little to wait for Poppy. “If we can hide the body well enough,” she said, “maybe people will think the boggruff ate him. The smashed up wagon is by the marshes, after all.”

“Perhaps. I wonder how long before his unit will miss him? Surprised they’re not out looking already, since he’s missing on duty.”

“I’m not sure he exactly  _ was _ on duty. I got the impression he and the Marquis had a special arrangement of some sort, a bit hush hush.”

“Oh?”

“He said...well he implied, this dark chamber of the Marquis’s is off the books, so to speak.”

The Doctor’s face became flinty, a look she’d seen on him enough times to understand why they called him the oncoming storm. 

“I know you hardly need me to protect you these days, but so help me, Clara, I won’t let the Marquis hurt you.”

“I know,” she said, her heart lifting. From a man who tripped over his tongue when he tried to express how he felt, that was probably a romantic gesture. She was scarcely any better herself. Look at the muddle she’d got herself into trying to tell poor Danny she loved him. Post-it notes plastered her shelves. She’d tried so hard. And maybe that was the problem. If she’d really loved Danny, would she have had to force the words out? But she didn’t want to think about Danny now. He’d told her, hadn’t he? Give me five minutes of your day and then live your life.  

They rode on, scanning the track ahead, until Clara spotted the place where the wagon had stopped and then turned. They would have to clear the wheel marks from the surface dust, or anyone would guess something happened here. Clara dismounted and led Firebrand off the track, past the bushes. Nausea rose in her stomach. There was a clear trail where she’d dragged Havernack by his boots. 

They tied the horses to a low branch. The Doctor dragged his boots over the scuff marks to obscure them, while she searched the forest for the pile of branches concealing the body. She was not long at the grim task before she found it. Molly had been right to bring this up. In her distraught state, Clara hadn’t done nearly as good a job covering the body as she’d thought. Havernack’s arm poked out through the branches. It would be impossible for anyone passing this way to miss him.

Feeling sick, Clara couched on her haunches and called the Doctor. She didn’t know if she could bear to look at the body again, never mind move it. She was responsible for this. She killed a man.  _ No. Remember what he was about to do.  _

The Doctor crouched by her side. “Are you alright?” 

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You don’t have to be,” he said, taking her hand. “I mean it’s okay if you’re not.”

Clara smiled and squeezed his hand gratefully. “I’m glad you’re here. Let’s get this done, shall we?”

The Doctor looked thoughtfully at Clara and then at grey the hand hanging from the makeshift grave. “I’ve got an idea. Remember the hummingbird from this morning?”

“Of course.” Somehow they’d turned a yo yo into to an apple, and then the apple into a hummingbird. She still wasn’t quite sure how, but when they joined hands and focused their energy together, something magical happened. “What are you thinking?”

“Seems to me, you changed an object into something else of roughly the same mass. What if, for example, you changed this,” he gestured the dead man’s hand, “into something else?”

“Like what?”

The Doctor’s gaze landed on a branch in the woodland shroud covering Havernack. “See that moth?” A small mottled brown moth was resting on the bark of a nearby branch, just above Havernack’s hand. “How many moths do you think Havernack is worth?”

Clara closed her eyes, holding the image of the moth in her mind. The Doctor’s mind joined seamlessly with hers, sending a trickle of pure pleasure through her body. Who ever said body and mind were separate were so wrong. Clara saw it then, how the mental and physical were inextricably connected: wanting, needing, desire. Her power. The right to justice. Clara gasped and the Doctor did too as gold light filtered through her eyelids and her fingers flared hot. A swirl of gold particles transformed the woodpile into a living, seething mass of wings. 

The Doctor pulled Clara to her feet and they stumbled backwards. Moths the colour of coffee and dark chocolate flitted and danced in the scattered sunlight, and then formed a shoal, rising together in the dappled light, whirling higher towards the treetops as one living thing. 

For a moment, it seemed to Clara Havernack’s face formed in the mass of furry bodies and wings, darkening the sky. A chill ran down her spine. Did the Doctor see that too? He put a comforting arm around her shoulder, and she moved closer to him, enjoying the sweet feeling of togetherness. Then the image disintegrated; the moths dispersed among the treetops and away into the forest as if nothing had ever disturbed the peace of that bright morning. 

The Doctor prodded the pile of branches with his foot, which had collapsed into nothing more than a scattering of forest debris. No sign that they had ever concealed anything.

“Look what you did,” he said. “Transformed something terrible into something amazing.” 

“ _ We _ did it. Together,” she corrected him. She looked up at him then, her heart filled with something she couldn’t quite name. 

She felt free. Free of Havernack. Ready to discover more of this mysterious power she’d been gifted with. Ready to discover what she and the Doctor could really be together if they let go of their fears and followed their hearts. 

She moved her face up towards his. 

He gently moved her hair aside, pausing, momentarily uncertain. “Would you like me to kiss you again?” he whispered.

“Very much.” She moved her lips towards his. 

He pulled her in, capturing her lips with his own, one hand on her waist, and the other on her back. They stood locked together in the warm morning light, breathing each other in, closer than they had ever let themselves be before, and it felt glorious. 

After a moment, he said in a rush, “I know I don’t always say the right things. I’ll probably be a rubbish boyfriend. But I’ll show you...I swear I’ll show you everything.”

“It’s alright,” she said, soothingly, holding his body hard to hers. “I’ve never exactly won girlfriend of the year. But we’ll work it out. In our own way.”

She threaded her fingers through his, delighted at how it felt; warm and intimate and so very right. 

He looked down at their linked hands. “One step at a time?”

“Yes.” She kissed him again, a deep, sweet, lingering kiss that neither of them wanted to break. The kiss seemed to unlock something in him. He buried his hands in her hair, his tongue probing her mouth in a tantalising exploration. He wanted more, she could feel it. She did too. 

Softly kissing his way down the skin of her neck, he whispered, “I want to get you back to the TARDIS. Lock out the whole universe.” 

“Just you and me.” Her breath came fast now. “I like the sound of that.”  

In the end, though, they had to break apart and head back through the forest, towards the horses. Clara felt lighter than air. For the first time in a long time, with their hands linked and their hearts in tune, she felt things were going to work out just fine.

**Lagradil town**

The Marquis of Lagradil flicked a riding crop idly against his leather boot. He didn’t like to be kept waiting. He didn’t like to be tricked or thwarted either, especially not by inferiors. This whole thing with the woman Clara made him lose face and he hated  _ that  _ most of all. What with the new captain of the guard making life difficult, and the Queen shifting her allegiance, he needed to let people know he was still a force to be reckoned with. And what’s more, this Clara beguiled him. She was beautiful, yes, but more than that, her defiance was a thing to be broken, a challenge to be risen to and brought to heel. Of course, he could choose other women, but there was something about Clara that made his blood run hot. He wanted  _ her _ as is wife. 

The Marquis paced the length of the antechamber, a bare room without windows, joining the scholar’s library with his secret chamber beyond. The building was set apart from the palace, but an obliging ancestor had constructed a tunnel which the Marquis had been happy to discover led to the room beyond the door. He’d adapted it for his purposes. He invited very few into the chamber; most of his dark business was conducted in here, the room between the library and  his chamber. He was a tall man, and the room was small, so he turned and repeated the pacing, each time angrier than the last. 

Earlier today, two dwarves had mumbled about  _ Clara _ as they were thrust kicking into the town stocks. They were not the only ones, of course, he’d had more alleged sightings than he could count. Most turned out to be nonsense. Now, the Marquis paced restlessly in the pokey gas-lit room, waiting for his contact from the guardhouse.

The door to the scholar’s library opened. A man with a hunched back and straggly grey hair, the guardhouse caretaker, always keen to earn extra coin for tattles of information, shuffled through. Ever since that blasted Blamwitch had been appointed Captain of the Guards, the Marquis had found it harder and harder to keep things running the way he liked them.

“What have you got for me, Drelch?” he snapped.

The old man sniffed. “According to Barney Lightfoot your pretty girl and an old fella were seen out Brevnick way. I wouldn’t usually set much store by what Lightfoot says, as he has the brains of a winter-plum stone, and he was worse than usual today with his blathering. But turns out Jack Havernack went out there too. And he’s missing. Captain declared him AWOL an hour ago.”

The Marquis rubbed his chin. Havernack had brought him avoiders off the books more than once. Even talked his way into the chamber one time, although the Marquis regretted that soon after. He’d not felt the same way about the girl after Havernack got his hands on her, so he’d let her go with the promise to slit her pretty throat if she told anyone.

Pressing three copper coins into Drelch’s hand, the Marquis dismissed him. 

So, maybe the dwarves in the stocks had been telling the truth. Perhaps it would be worth speaking to them. The Marquis pushed the door of his dark chamber open and stepped through. It had been too long since he’d spent time in here. He lit the gas lamp by the door and walked slowly around the room. This was part of the pleasure, of course, the anticipation and planning. He stopped by a cruel wooden bench with shackles at the base, running his hand over the leather padding. Heat surged through his body as he pictured the scene. No one made him look weak or foolish. Clara had a choice. She could either become his wife or wear his shackles. Either way, sweet Clara would sing to his tune.   


	12. Return to Lagradil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara and the Doctor return to Lagradil, but the Marquis has not given up his quest to find the mysterious Clara who had captivated him at the Spring Ball.

Standing in front of The Wayfarer, Phar squinted up at his daughter, who was currently sweeping through the sky on Snuffkin behind Ekkie. He sighed, as if resigning himself to the inevitable.

“So, Ekkie and Hetty will scout the road. If they spot soldiers they’ll fly back and let you know. You’ll have to hide if that happens. Marco, here can take you past the town gates and then you’ll have to make your way to the market where your vehicle is.” Phar shook Marco’s hand. “We appreciate this.”

Marco rubbed his leg. “Happy to help a friend of Ekkie’s.” 

Molly caught Clara just before she climbed aboard the wagon. “Take care in Lagradil. The Marquis will be looking for you.” The older woman smiled brightly at Clara, her eyes settling on the silver broach. “This is a fine cloak. You wear it well. Thank you for all you’ve done here.” 

Clara hugged Molly. “Thank  _ you _ . For everything.” She climbed up onto the wagon next to the Doctor. “Waylor,” she leaned down to the boy, “you’ll be a fine mage, one day. Keep at those books!” 

He grinned up at her as the wagon began to roll. Clara turned back and waved, already missing the family and their kind hearts. She spared a glance at the Doctor. This was why he closed himself off to goodbyes. The curse of a long life: always dipping in and out of people’s lives, never finding a place among them. She squeezed his hand for a moment, expecting to offer him a fleeting, reassuring touch. To her surprise, he wove his fingers through hers and flashed a wide smile. 

“Let’s go home,” he said. That was the moment she knew, more than the kiss in the forest this morning, that he wanted her to share her life with him. The kiss was wonderful, yes, and she was eager to repeat it. But this tender holding of hands in a quiet moment when there were no monsters to run from meant more. It meant  _ I want you with me _ . It meant _ stay _ . She leaned her arm against him and sighed gently as they rumbled along the road. Home. That blue box. She longed to see it again. 

“Hmm, I’m looking forward to a coffee and a long shower. I feel like I haven’t had a proper wash in a week. How long have we been here?”

“I’m not sure. A few days?” the Doctor said, squeezing her hand.

The Lagradil road cut through swathes of forest. The open road sometimes ran  alongside the tree line and sometimes right through deep dark woods, where the light faded and the smell of leaves and loamy soil pervaded Clara’s senses.    

There were long stretches where Clara couldn’t see Snuffkin at all, but somehow she sensed the dragon pig’s presence above the scattered canopy of trees. 

They travelled for some miles, enjoying the countryside and Marco’s stories of the tall ships at the docks and the strange lands they sailed. They were on a section of open road, trees either side, when Clara suddenly stiffened. “I think --” before she finished the sentence the dragon pig came into view flying low along the twisting track.

“Soldiers!” Hetty called. 

Clara weighed up the deep undergrowth. “We’ll hide in the forest,” she told Marco. “You keep going and we’ll and catch up.”  

Clara leapt to the ground, the Doctor close behind. They raced into the forest, pushing through the thickets searching for a place to hide. In the distance, Clara heard the sound of hooves and voices. It was hard to tell how many; perhaps three or four. 

“This way.” The Doctor pulled her down a slope and towards a fallen tree, its bark covered in thick green moss. They leapt over and pressed themselves to the ground. On the road, the rumbling of the wagon ceased and the sound of horses hooves halted. The Doctor and Clara huddled together behind the log, straining to hear the conversation, alert for signs the soldiers might leave the track.

Clara felt something tugging at cloak. “Hey,” she hissed. 

A long straggly arm reached up to her broach. “Mine!” it declared.

“It’s  _ not _ yours, _ ”  _ the Doctor snapped in a hushed whisper. 

A wrinkled face screwed itself up into an angry grimace. “Mine!” it said again.   

The soldiers stopped talking on the road.

The little creature squealed and tugged Clara’s cloak harder, its long toes dancing up and down on the spot, making such a racket the soldiers were bound to hear. 

“ _ Please _ be quiet!” Clara pleaded. The creature’s eyes were large and round, and if it had any fur covering, it might have looked cute, but at this moment all Clara wanted was to shut it up. Its long fingers snatched at the broach on her cloak.

“What’s that?” one of the soldiers asked another. 

Clara whispered, “Hush. Please hush. Those soldiers are after us.”

“Pah,” it said. “Shiny..” and made another grab for her broach.

In exasperation, Clara grabbed the squirming critter, wrapped her hand over its mouth, and whispered angrily, “I am a powerful mage and I’ll turn you into a tree frog if you don’t keep quiet!”

“Rude,” grumbled the creature but after that, it fell silent. Footsteps approaching. The  _ shing _ of a sword leaving its scabbard. Clara’s heart raced. She tried to summon something, to draw on her magic, but there was nothing there. Her mind remained passive and blank, and no magic tingled in her fingertips. Then the Doctor grabbed her hand. Something washed over her, filling her mind with the image of a bird, black and white feathers, perched in a tree. What was the Doctor getting at? She closed her eyes and opened herself to him, let him guide her. The image of the bird filled her mind and suddenly it was there, in the tree.

“Find anything?” a voice called from the road.

Footsteps stopped just short of their hiding place. “Nah. Just a mockingjay babbling.” A bird swooped from the branch and up into the forest roof and Clara’s heart soared too. The things she and the Doctor could do together!

“Let’s get moving,” the voice said. The wagon rolled on and sound of the horses faded into the distance. 

Clara let out a relieved breath. She let her captive go. It grumbled and wheezed, and now Clara could see it more clearly she decided that perhaps it was a goblin. Or possibly an elf. Whatever it was, it stood half Clara’s height and wore a tatty robe that might once have been green. Its leathery toes were bare and almost black. 

“What  _ are _ you?” Clara asked.

“I am Sorg,” it declared. “You, rude.”

“Oh. Is that your name, Sorg? Or are you  _ a  _ sorg?”

Sorg sniffed its stubby nose. “ _ Sorg,” _ it said again. The Doctor and Clara exchanged glances as the little creature shuffled around in the layer of twigs and leaves covering the forest floor.   

“Well thanks for getting us almost captured,” the Doctor said. “We’ll be off.”

Sorg launched itself at Clara. “Sorg want shiny!” 

Clara staggered backwards as the creature rammed into her. It would almost be funny, and she might have given Sorg what it wanted, except she was attached to this cloak now, as if it were some kind of talisman. She wasn’t sure it was a fitting fate for the Mage King’s cloak to end up lining the lair of a forest elf. Beside, she needed its hood to disguise her getting into Lagradil.

“I’m sorry. I need it.”

Sorg pouted.

Clara crouched down. “You want something shiny?” Sorg’s eyes widened even further, if that was possible. “What do you think, Doctor?” Clara said, standing up, clasping his hand. She let her mind paint the leaves rich gold and brilliant silver and shining bronze in the sunlight. All around, trees became a dazzling display of light, the sun reflecting on a thousand sparking mirrors. Sorg danced with joy, lifting its arms up to the shining leaves, tramping its feet on the ground. Happiness swept through Clara in waves, like nothing she’d felt before. 

“Look what we did,” she said, her breath catching in her throat, the thrill of creating something spectacular thumping in her chest.

“Wonders,” the Doctor said, holding her close, captivated by the brilliance surrounding them. “Clara Oswald, you show me wonders.” 

They savoured the moment as long as they dared, but Marco was waiting for them. Far too soon they parted and hurried through the forest to rejoin the track. 

It wasn’t long before they found Marco waiting anxiously by the side of his wagon. “You alright? I thought those soldiers were going to ‘ave you.”

The Doctor slapped the cheese seller on the back. “We’re alright. Let’s get going.”

#

By the time they approached the bridge on the stretch of road before town gates, the sun began to set. Bronze-green light flashed on the dragon-pig’s scales as Ekkie put Snuffkin down on the road beside the wagon. Clara pulled up her hood before she jumped down to say goodbye to Ekkie and Hetty. 

The girl flung her arms around Clara. “I’m so glad we met you!” 

“The pleasure was all mine,” Clara said earnestly. There was something heartwarming about the way the girl looked up to Clara.

The Doctor jumped down from the wagon and scratched Snuffkin’s snout. “Now, you’ll look after our friend Ekkie, won’t you?”

“Ack,” said Ekkie. “I’ll be lookin’ after her, more like.”

The Doctor laughed. “That you will.” 

Ekkie leaned down and whispered in his ear. “Now  _ you _ keep an eye on that woman of yours.”

“Ekkie, I can’t take my eyes  _ off  _ her,” he said. 

Ekkie laughed aloud. Marco was getting impatient, eyeing the road and the town gates ahead. 

“You better get in the back, love,” Marco said to Clara, “And we’ll head to the gates.” 

Clara sighed and scrambled into the back of the cart, squeezing between smelly boxes and stacks of yellow-rinded round cheese. The aroma, which had been mildly unpleasant from up front became overpowering. 

“Hmm, delicious,” the Doctor quipped from up front, pulling the curtain back to peep through. She pulled a face, but not wishing to offend Marco, said nothing. The thought of that shower on the TARDIS got more appealing by the moment. More voices. 

They approached the town. “Late one for you, eh Marco?” called a voice, presumably the guard stationed at the gates. 

“Heard there’s a ship leaving for Sharandel on the ebb tide tonight. Never miss a chance for a shilling, that’s my motto.” There was laughing, and Clara felt the wagon roll onwards.

#

Hetty watched the wagon roll away. “Do you think they will be okay?” she asked Ekkie.

“Of course they will,” Ekkie said, but she couldn’t quite convince herself. Judging by Hetty’s snort, she didn’t do a great job of convincing the girl either. 

“We could just circle over the market. Be sure they get to their wagon,” Hetty said. “I mean, if we stay high, no one will bother us.”

Ekkie chewed her lip. It was a bit of a risk. She didn’t want to draw undue attention to Snuffkin and set anyone sniffing about her nest. If they flew fast in this failing light probably no one would spot them. The streets seemed quite empty now. And it  _ would  _ be satisfying to know Clara and the Doctor had really escaped. 

“Alright,” Ekkie said. “But on no condition do we land.”  

#

The Doctor managed to stay silent as they passed the town gates and rumbled along the cobbled streets and lanes. The shops here were plaster and wood-fronted, as if he had stepped back in time to Earth five hundred years earlier. Shop doors were closed now. A few straggling traders pushed handcarts up the hill, from the marketplace the Doctor presumed. 

Marco eased his horse to a halt. “I go this way, to the docks,” he said. “You want to follow this road straight down the hill to the market. Should be fairly quiet now.” 

The Doctor shook Marco’s hand. “We’re grateful.” He scooted around the back and after a quick glance to ensure the way was clear, pulled the wagon’s curtain aside. Clara jumped to the ground, her face concealed by the hood, her sword still at her hip, every bit a swashbuckling hero in his eyes. 

Clara raised a quick hand to Marco. The wagon rumbled away, leaving them in the town square. The Doctor recognised the layout of the town from their flyover with Ekkie a couple of days before: small roads led from the square to the other quarters of the town, the marketplace, the docks, the big cathedral.  

“The TARDIS should be where we left it.” He nodded towards a narrow lane that he judged would take them where they wanted to go, past a cobblers shop and a baker’s, winding its way towards the outdoor market. 

Boldly, the Doctor took Clara’s hand, because that was a thing they did now, holding hands when nothing was chasing them. She looked down at their joined hands. Even in the shadow of her hood he saw her smile. That bright smile sent shiver of anticipation down his spine. He knew he was probably grinning back like an idiot, but he didn’t care. Lagradil opened his eyes to what he and Clara could be together if they let go of their fears and doubts. He had no intention of ever letting that go.  

#

A splatter of rancid starfruit ran down Gorrin Bloodhammer’s forehead and the length of his nose. It stayed there. Gorrin knew that shaking his head would only risk creating a spray into his eyes, so he let it alone. It would drip into his beard soon enough, with the rotten eggs and the rest of the slimy fruit. He grumbled at his cousin, seated in the stocks beside him, “Will this day never end?”

“I don’t know what’s worse,” Dorrin snapped, “the rotten vegetables, the jeering, or your endless complaints!” 

The dwarves had suffered twelve long hours in the stocks. Dawn till dusk, according to that hulking granite-head Lightfoot. It  _ must  _ be almost over, as the light had begun to fade.

“If  _ you _ hadn’t--” Gorrin halted his tirade, because a wagon that had halted across the square just coughed up a familiar outline. Dwarvish eyes picked her out clearly the gloom. Short for a human, she wore a fine clock and in Gorrin’s opinion, was the author of his current misery. “Cousin, it’s  _ her. _ ”

Dorrin gave a exasperated sigh. “Who now?”

“Her. Clara. The avoider.”

That got Dorrin’s attention. “Are you sure?”

“It’s her alright.” Gorrin strained to follow which direction they took. The two figures hurried across the square and into Market Lane. Gorrin rattled the stocks again. If that idiot Lightfoot came to release them soon, perhaps that gold would line his pocket after all.

“Eh, Dorrin, look sharp. Someone comes,” warned Gorrin, although fastened as they were wrists and ankles in the stocks, their field of view was restricted to a few feet from the ground. 

Four figures marched into the square from Palace Gate Lane: the mountainous form of Lightfoot, a set of keys swinging in his giant hand. The other Gorrin didn’t instantly recognise. But he knew good leather when he saw it. Lightfoot’s companion wore a pair of expensive knee length boots, clacking over the cobbles like firecrackers, striding along like he owned the city: the Marquis of Lagradil. Behind them, two more soldiers, dressed in the livery of the Marquis’ personal household guard. The Marquis halted next to the stocks, his riding crop level with Gorrin’s nose. 

“This them?”

“Yes, m’lud,” said Lightfoot,  glancing nervously at the dwarves and then back at the Marquis.

“I hear you know something of my fair Clara,” the Marquis said. “Lightfoot here’s a bit hazy on the details.”

Gorrin’s mind raced through possibilities, searching for a way to turn this to their advantage. “Why yes, your Gracefulness. Happen we do, we do. Perhaps your kindself would be inclined to show his gratitude if we tell what we know?”

The Marquis squatted down to Gorrin’s level and grinned, his perfect white teeth shining in the darkness. “Tell me what you know and I’ll see how grateful it makes me feel.”

Gorrin rattled his arms in the stocks. “These bars here, they fog my memory, your Grace. I’d remember much clearer standing up.”

The Marquis’ smile dropped. He grabbed Gorrin by the scruff of the neck and growelled, “Impudent tunnel-rat. Tell me what you know.”

“Alright!” Dorrin exclaimed. “We saw her just now, dropped off by a cheese wagon, so she was. Headed down Market Lane with an old fella.”

The Marquis narrowed his eyes, scrutinising Dorrin’s face for a moment. Then he stood up. “Very well. Lightfoot, with me.”

“Hey, how about letting us out?” Gorrin called, kicking his feet back and forth inside the stocks. 

Lightfoot stopped and turned back. “Sir?”

“Let them out first thing in the morning,” the Marquis snapped, and set off at a cracking pace across the square, his cloak flowing behind him, blood red in the gloom, his guards close at his heels, swords drawn. Gorrin watched them go, cursing under his breath.  _ Clara _ had been nothing but trouble from start to finish. He hoped the Marquis’ Dark Chamber was the  _ start _ of her torment. 

#

Clara felt good with the Doctor’s hand in hers. The world seemed full of possibilities, this world, the next world and the next. They had found something priceless in Lagradil: each other. 

Clara caught sight of a poster, pinned high up on a door frame. “What’s  _ that _ ?” 

“Oh,” the Doctor paced towards it. “Want a keepsake?” He stretched up to rip it down. He stood with the paper in his hands, reading the words aloud. “Ten gold pieces.”

“I’m not sure whether to be insulted or flattered,” she said.

From nowhere, it seemed, a figure stepped between her and the Doctor. “Oh, flattered, fair Clara. Who could fail to be flattered by the attention of the Marquis of Lagradil?”

Clara’s hand flew to her sword, but she didn’t draw it. Talk first. She didn’t want more blood on her hands, not even the Marquis’s.

“Look. I’m truly sorry if I gave you the wrong idea by dancing with you. But I can’t marry you. We’re visitors here…”

The Marquis’ face turned hard. “That’s where we have a problem. You see, I’ve chosen you. If you run away, that makes me look weak. I can’t have that.”

“You can’t have  _ her _ ,” the Doctor snapped. “You can’t go around--” Two of the Marquis guards grabbed an arm each, pinioning the Doctor between them in a tight grip. 

Clara’s sword zinged from its sheath. The Marquis just stood grinning. “I like a woman with nerve. But put down the sword.”

“Let him go!” Clara snarled. “I’m not joking.”

“Neither am I.” The Marquis nodded at one of the soldiers. In a moment, the man had pressed a silver blade to the Doctor’s throat. 

“Alright!” Clara lowered her sword. “Don’t hurt him. What do you want?”

The Marquis didn’t answer right away. He stood square in the roadway, his eyes on her like he was appraising a work of art, taking in her cheekbones, her neck, and the leather body armour, leaving Clara with the creepiest feeling he was imagining her wearing a lot less.

"You," he said simply. Then the world went dark as a hood was slung over her head and she felt herself lifted off her feet. Lightfoot again, she supposed. She swung her sword wildly in panic, and heard a grunt when the hilt connected with something fleshy. Then the sword chinged to the cobbles. Lightfoot's thick arms squeezed her chest. She gasped for breath. Her vision exploded into a purple haze. The Marquis, from a distance, was speaking. “Bring him. Lightfoot you oaf! Don’t break her ribs.” Then the world faded into silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliff-hanger folks! Check back next weekend for the conclusion of The Dark Forest.


	13. The Power of Stories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara and the Doctor come face to face with the Marquis of Lagradil.

Ekkie stood with Snuffkin under a bridge, away from the town square, waiting for Hetty. When they had seen the guards pursue Clara and the Doctor down Market Lane, Hetty persuaded Ekkie to land. Against her better judgement, Ekkie let Hetty follow the guards on the condition she kept her distance. Phar and Molly would have her hide if anything happened to their daughter, and Ekkie wouldn’t blame them.

To Ekkie’s great relief, Hetty burst into sight, wheezing and out of breath. “I was too late. He’s taken them!”

“Where?”

“That’s the stupid thing. He took them down Cathedral Lane, but I lost them. Why would he take them there?” 

Ekkie didn’t know, although a suspicion chewed her gut. Thank Faith Hetty  _ didn’t _ follow any further. She could feel the agitated girl jumping up and down next to her. Ekkie had to think fast, before she ran off again and got into a world of trouble. But what could they do? A blind old woman and a girl?

Ekkie grabbed hold of Hetty’s arm. It was a long shot. But Molly did say the Captain had snatched more than one avoider from under the Marquis’ nose. “Look, if he’s taken them where I think he has, then we have to tell Captain Blamwitch.”

#

Hetty ran faster than she ever had. She’d left Ekkie hiding with Snuffkin under the bridge and sprinted towards the Guardhouse, her heart hammering. Ekkie thought she was too young to understand about the Dark Chamber. But it was obvious the Marquis had taken Clara there. Adults always tried to pretend they didn’t know what went on, or talked vaguely about ‘bad things’ if they talked about it at all. Hetty knew what  _ bad things  _ meant. She wasn’t going to let that happen to Clara. 

She paused at the foot of the long flight of wooden steps up to the Captain’s office. One dour-looking guard stood outside the faded door, his hand on his sword. Hetty took a moment to slow her breath. She had to get them to listen. She held up her head and walked deliberately up the stairs, stopping in front of the guard. 

She swallowed. “I’m here to see the Captain,” she said, in the most grown up voice she could muster.

“Buzz off,” snapped the guard, barely looking at her.

Hetty’s throat constricted painfully tight. She wanted to run, but a grizzly anger took seed in her belly. “I have important information for Captain Blamwitch,” she repeated, louder this time.

“Told you to  _ buzz off. _ ” The guard looked down at her, his bulbous nose red from drinking too much ale. Just like some of the loudmouths who drank in The Wayfarers bar and liked the sound of their own voices far too much.

“And I told  _ you _ I have important information Captain Blamwitch needs to hear right now!” Hetty fairly roared back, her spine ramrod straight and her feet rooted to the spot.  

The guard made a low rumbling sound in his throat. He raised his hand as if to strike her.

Hetty got ready to dodge. She’d kick that door down if she had to.

Then the chipped door squeaked open. 

The guard swung around, lowering his arm sheepishly. “Sorry, Ma’am. The girl was just leaving.” 

Captain Blamwitch, standing a full head and shoulders over the guard, wearing the blue cloak of the Lagradil Protectors, looked down at Hetty. “If this young citizen has something important enough to come to the Captain of the Guards with, the least I can do is listen, don’t you think?” she said, her tone like ice.

“Yes Ma’am.” The guard snapped back to attention, eyes forwards.

Hetty felt a lump in her throat the size of one of Marco’s cheeses. If Captain Blamwitch was really helping avoiders like Ma said, then Hetty could hardly ask her outright. “If it please you, Ma’am, I’d like to speak just to you.”

“Very well.” The Captain opened the door wider and moved aside.

Hetty stepped through. The office was much smaller than she’d imagined. A desk piled high with papers, an old chair behind the desk, the leather seat padding worn thin with age. A picture above the desk of the King and Queen, from many years ago, when both were young. Hetty looked the Captain in the eye, her heart pounding in her ears. It was now or never.

“My friend. The Marquis took her. I’m afraid he’s going to do terrible things to her.”

The Captain’s eyes widened, horrified. “Your friend. Is she...a  _ child _ ?” 

“No Ma’am. She’s a visitor. She killed the giant spider Baldor… but she don’t want to marry the Marquis.” 

The Captain’s lips pulled taut. “We must be grateful, I suppose, he has not started on  _ children. _ ” Her tone was angry in a way that made Hetty want to shrink back, but she held her ground. 

“It’s not right, Ma’am, him taking her to his Dark Chamber.” Hetty shuddered as she said the words.  

The captain’s eyes became suddenly alert. She leaned in towards Hetty. “Where did he take your friend, child? Did you see the entrance to the chamber?”  

“No, Ma’am. I lost him on Cathedral Lane.”

“Can you show me where? I’ve scoured the city to find his evil business.”

“You’ll help me?” said Hetty in a small voice.

“If I can. Corporal Garrett, with me.” 

Hetty almost choked. The captain believed her, and what’s more, she was going to  _ do _ something about it.  The captain looked at Hetty with serious eyes, and said, “Lead on, Miss.” 

#

“So. I know who  _ she _ is. One of my future wives," the Marquis peeled off a leather glove and threw in on a bench next to Clara, "once we’ve ironed out a few kinks. But who are you?”

The Marquis leering smile towards Clara turned the Doctor’s stomach over. “The man you’ll be sorry you ever met if you harm one hair on her head,” he said darkly. He snatched at a cuff, doing a very effective job of chaining his wrist to a shackle on the leg of a wooden cross pinned to the wall. The room looked like some sort of dungeon, illuminated by gaslight, with a cruel bullwhip hanging on the wall along with a few other devices the Doctor didn’t care to speculate about. 

The Marquis, full of self-importance and bluster, cracked a riding crop against his leather boots and gave a booming laugh. “Hmm.  _ You  _ seem to be the one chained up.” He strode across the room. In the darkness the Doctor could see Clara, sat in a chair, her hands tied to the armrests. Her hood was down now, her chin slumped on her chest. He guessed she was unconscious.

“Why do you care so much, old man?” the Marquis sneered. “What, is she your  _ niece _ ?” 

“She won’t marry you. Get it through your thick head.”

The Marquis sighed theatrically, divesting himself of his other glove. “This is quite simple. I choose. The woman consents to become my wife.”

“I don’t think you understand the meaning of consent. It isn’t  _ consent  _ if someone can’t say no because you’re more powerful than they are.”

“How  _ modern _ . But this is Lagradil. It’s always been this way.” The Marquis tilted Clara’s chin upwards and whispered into her ear. “You’ll soon forget him, dear.”

Clara groaned. “What’s going on?”

“He wants you to marry him,” the Doctor spat.

Clara looked from the Doctor to the Marquis, her face unreadable, even though he'd  put considerable effort into interpreting her facial expressions.

The Marquis stared at Clara. “You really are quite a beauty,” he murmured. “Your eyes tell a thousand tales. You have bewitched me.” He smiled a leering smile. “I am powerless in the face of your enchanting--”

“No,” the Doctor interjected furiously. “No, no, no, you don’t do that. You don’t make it  _ her _ fault. This is on you. She won't have you.”

The Marquis sniffed and straightened up. “But I can offer her so much…”

“Ahem. Sitting right here,” Clara interjected. “You two don’t get to talk about me like I’m not here.” 

“Well pardon me for caring what happens to you. He’s an--”

Clara turned her eyes pointedly toward the Doctor. “Doctor, shut up.”

The Marquis took Clara’s face in his fingers. “Now now. That has to stop.” He leaned forwards and whispered in her ear. “You don’t get to decide things. You belong to me now.”

Clara offered the Marquis a wobbly smile.  

“Clara!” the Doctor exclaimed. “You can’t possibly be thinking of--” 

“Perhaps I made a mistake” Clara said. “I was nervous...” Clara smiled faintly at the Marquis, leaning forwards. 

“You will submit to my every wish?” The Marquis placed a hand on Clara’s shoulder, the excitement growing on his face. The Doctor wanted to break every last one of his fingers. 

Clara pursed her lips together, her face contorted. 

The Marquis eyed Clara hungrily. He unclasped her cloak, eased it from her shoulders, and threw it to the floor. “Then it is agreed. We begin your training now.”

“What?” the Doctor exploded. “Not saying  _ no _ isn’t the same as saying yes!”

Clara opened her mouth and closed it again, looking from the Doctor to the Marquis.

“Obviously she’s had a knock on the head,” the Doctor raged. “She can’t agree to anything in this state!” Perhaps she was befuddled. She knew her magic only worked when they joined hands, so she was playing for time. Maybe?

“I think  _ you _ are a sore loser,” the Marquis said. “I mean, look at us both. Why would she choose you over me?” The Marquis took off his velvet jacket and began to strut between the Doctor and Clara. His white shirt, with a ridiculous ruffle down the front, made him look quite the most stupid thing the Doctor had ever seen, and he remembered the Kandy Man, so that was saying something. 

The Marquis rolled up his cuffs. “ _ He _ has to go,” he said, jabbing a finger at the Doctor.

“Very well,” Clara quietly. 

The Doctor spluttered. “Well that’s just lovely. I should have known it was all one sided.” He yanked his chains furiously. 

“Sorry.” Clara said. “But he’s a Marquis. Royalty.”

The Marquis seemed to stand a little taller. 

“Alright,” the Doctor said at last, hanging his head. He wasn’t above begging. “Please. Just let me say goodbye to her properly, then you'll hear no more from me.” 

The Marquis rubbed his cheek, considering the request. Clara looked from the Doctor to the Marquis. “No!” she said suddenly. “I don’t want him to touch me.”

The Marquis snapped his whip on his boot. “You must understand. As your husband  _ I _ say what happens.” He turned to the Doctor and unshackled his chains. “Take your leave of her as you wish.” 

The Doctor approached Clara. Her face was steel, unreadable. “There’s a few things you should know about Clara Oswald,” he said quietly. “She’s got the courage of a lion and the wit of a fox.” From behind, the Doctor heard a  _ zing _ of a knife leaving its scabbard. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, but he didn’t turn towards the blade. He’d stake his life on it: if Clara Oswald was still Clara Oswald, she’d have his back. “She’s also quite bossy. Not only that,” he went on, smiling now, reaching down to kiss her cheek. “She’s a terrific liar.”

Clara winked at him once. He touched her hand.

Power surged through them both, filling his body with hybrid energy, cracking open his heart and letting everything spill out: rage, fire, ice. For a terrible moment, he wanted to kill the Marquis. They could do it, plunge a blade through his dark heart. Save Lagradil from his evil ways.  

A maelstrom erupted in the Dark Chamber. 

Clara’s warmth caressed him, soothing him, wrapping him with kindness, reminding him who he was.  _ Never cowardly or cruel _ . We have a choice, she seemed to say. Let’s choose wisely. 

The chair holding Clara morphed into a storm of rose petals, swirling around them both as she stood up and wrapped her fingers through his.

“I’d never give you up,” she said.

“I know,” the Doctor whispered. The petals began to drift to the floor. If he didn’t believe in magic before, he did now. 

The Marquis howled. He lunged at them, dagger in hand. 

A flash of unspoken words became shared images, memories, plans. Instead of a dagger the Marquis was suddenly holding a stick of celery. He gaped at it in his hand. Growling, he dashed it to the floor and snatched a sword from the wall. 

Clara closed her eyes. This time, they imagined the sword into a hissing, spitting snake. The Marquis yelped and threw if far away from him. It slithered off into a corner.

“Just stop,” the Doctor said. “You can’t win.”

“Never!” the Marquis declared, his eyes landing on a vicious spiked flail on the wall.

Clara shook her head. “Next weapon you pick up will become, oh, I don’t know, Doctor, what do you think? Scorpions?”

“Hmmm, there’s a parasite that lives on Zabgreb Three. Likes to scurry up under people’s clothes and bury itself in warm, dark places. How does that sound?” 

The Marquis turned a shade paler. His hands remained limply at his sides. 

“Didn’t think so.” The Doctor grinned. 

“You know what?” Clara said. “I don’t like secrets. I think people like you thrive in the dark. Do you like secrets Doctor?”

Catching on, the Doctor grinned. “No. I think this places needs a big front door. And a sign. So everyone knows  _ exactly _ what’s been going on here.”

“No, no that’s really not…” the Marquis began, his eyes flashing wildly. 

Clara and the Doctor turned to the front of the building, through the Scholar’s Library, imagining bright red door, with a sign above, flashing in garish colours, lurid yellow and lime green: “The Marquis of Lagradil’s Dark Chamber.”

“This is kinda childish,” Clara whispered.

The Doctor grinned. “But immensely satisfying.” 

Moments later, there was a disturbance in the Scholar’s Library, heavy footsteps marching through. Guards, led by a tall woman, followed by Hetty of all people, burst into the room. 

“Captain Blamwitch,” the Marquis blustered. “Arrest these people immediately.” 

“On what charge?”

“Avoidance of lawful selection,” the Marquis snapped, his nose high in the air. “I demand justice.”

“Of course. We must obey the law,” Captain Blamwitch said mildly. “The law lets you choose wives. Many think that law is long overdue for change.” Her tone hardened. “It  _ doesn’t _ let you abuse women. Our laws have never allowed that.  _ Never. _ ” Captain Blamwitch marched right up to the Marquis, her eyes steely.  “All I need is evidence. One bit of evidence and I’ll have you in front of a Magistrate, the same as any man in the land.”

More and more people were arriving in the chamber. Scholars dressed in long robes and passersby. Whispers became exclamations of surprise. 

A thin-faced girl stepped forward, shaking. 

She spoke falteringly, her eyes fixed on the Captain, “Does my word count as evidence, Ma’am?”

The Marquis snarled. 

The Captain raised one finger. Two of her soldiers stepped closer to the Marquis. The Captain put herself between the Marquis and the young woman. “If you have something to say, Miss, then we will hear you,” she said kindly.

The young woman’s eyes brimmed with tears, but her jaw was set. “I’ve got things to say. He held me in here for days. And I’ve got things to show and all.” The girl lifted her shirt with shaking hands, revealing her tummy, covered in angry red welts. “He did this. And worse.”  

“She's nobody!” the Marquis exclaimed. “You’d take this girl’s word over mine?”

The Doctor jabbed his finger at the Marquis. “ _ Everybody _ is somebody. A society’s worth is measured by the way it treats its most vulnerable members, not it’s most powerful. This brave young woman is worth a thousand of you.” He turned to Blamwitch. "Captain, I noticed a woman's shoe in the corner. I expect you'll find other things around here too. I dare say their owners will all have tales to tell that won't reflect well on the Marquis." 

The Captain nodded to her soldiers. They took hold the Marquis arms. He began to object, but the Captain’s voice rang out loud and true.

“Know this! I am listening. It’s long overdue and that is  _ my _ shame. Anyone who has a story about his Grace should come forward. No one is above the law. Not any longer.” The Captain gave a sharp nod to her soldiers, who dragged the Marquis away. “Search this chamber. Take everything that can be used in evidence back to the guardhouse.” 

Guards began a painstaking search of the room, carefully removing the shoe, a tattered strip of red fabric, a whip caked in blood. Word soon spread, and more people with stories to tell arrived at the chamber.

Clara glanced at the Captain. “Will his family intervene?”

“They’ll try. But I have allies. On the council and at the palace. It’s time. No more open secrets.” 

The Captain shook her head at the room, disgust clear on her face. “I want this place emptied and boarded up.” 

When the last of the evidence bags had been taken away, Clara approached the Captain. “Have you taken everything you need?” she asked, glancing back through the Scholar’s Library. 

The Captain nodded. 

Clara tugged the Doctor’s hand. “You know what I think this town needs?” she whispered. “A public library.” 

The Doctor grinned. “I couldn’t agree more. How about great stories of heroes battling to win the day? Some texts on freedom and justice? People living out their struggles in stories and then holding those stories close to their hearts. That’s how ideas spread.”

Clara and the Doctor linked hands. It began as a sensation coiling in his tummy and then spread to his chest, building until his breath came fast, heat bursting from his core, souls entwined in a joyful kind of symmetry. He felt her laugh aloud, a sound he'd hold close for eternity. 

He’d always resisted the idea that he was a hero. That’s not how he saw himself, but right then he saw himself through Clara’s eyes. He wasn’t just an old Time Lord who ran away. He  _ was _ her hero, and not just because he was the man who stopped the monsters. 

_ Never cowardly or cruel. _

“It was you,” he whispered “You told me a story in the barn that night. It became part of who I am.”

_And you gave me something more to be._ _You showed me I could be braver than I ever thought I could be._

“We created each other,” he murmured. They were so close now, joined by hands and hearts, brought together in an impossible story.  

Stories that happen in heads and hearts become exponentially more powerful when a child holds that dream in her hands. Nothing takes those heroes away. That was Clara’s vision: books to live by. Every story ever told, every hero ever written, dreamed into life on the shelves of Lagradil’s first public library.

Every book Clara had ever read. Every volume the Doctor had devoured over his long life. He helped Clara’s power manifest them all. The St Andrew’s Cross became a bookshelf. The whips hung on the chamber’s walls became the Chronicles of Narnia. The cruel shackles became Fairytales from the Forest of Cheam, and those terrible instruments that he didn’t want to imagine? They became a Treatise on the Rights of Sentient Beings. 

Clara was breathing hard now, her face beautifully flushed, her eyes blown large with excitement. “Look what we did, Doctor,” she gasped, holding his hand tight. “You and me.” He heard murmurs around him. Exclamations of surprise. Then Hetty tugged Clara’s arm, her eyes shining. 

“Can I... can I look?” she said.

Clara laughed aloud again. “Of course!” 

Hetty took a book from a shelf and opened it. A picture of a fierce dragon roared, red flames shooting across the page. Her eyes widened. 

Clara bent down towards Hetty. “Do you know the power of stories? They don’t just show us dragons exist. They show us dragons can be  _ beaten _ . Keep reading.”

“I will. I’ll bring Waylor.” Hetty’s eyes shone with excitement. “Ma can tell us her stories. Ekkie can tell us all about her Aunt Gresweld and the Mage King’s Cloak. We’ll write them all down!” Then Hetty’s face dropped. “Oh Faith. Ekkie! I have to go.” She flung her arms around Clara’s shoulders. “Thank you!” Then she was off, tearing through the library and out into the streets. 

Clara straightened up, smiling brightly. He’d never seen her look so vital, so alive, her skin glowing not with gold this time, but with victory. His body still tingling with raw energy, desire almost blurring his vision, he pulled her close, crushing her with a kiss. She exclaimed a little in surprise, and then sighed, her lips smiling under his, her body pressed hard against him.

“Doctor,” she murmured as she kissed him back. 

“Ahem.” The Doctor became aware that the Captain was watching them, arms folded. "Ahem,” she said again, louder this time.

Clara broke the kiss and blushed, which he found devastatingly attractive. It just made him want to kiss her again.  

The captain looked around at people taking books from the shelves, sitting together, sharing stories. She seemed lost for words.

“You’ll have to appoint a librarian,” Clara said. “I’m sure you’ll find someone.” 

“Yes. I guess I will.” Blamwitch sighed. “I'm supposed to arrest you for avoidance of lawful selection. It’s still the law. For now.” 

“Ah,” the Doctor said. “That’s a bit inconvenient.”

The captain wandered to the young woman who had first accused the Marquis, now  sitting cross legged on the floor, reading a book titled, ‘Victim to Victor.’ 

“Be a shame if you two slipped away while I was busy taking a statement from this young lady here, wouldn't it..." 

“Yes. Of course.” The Doctor tugged Clara’s hand, edgeding her towards the door. “We’ll just wait over here, shall we?” 

The captain deliberately turned her back on them. “ _ Don’t _ be here when I’ve finished.”    

#

The night air outside the chamber was still warm, and the people milling around gave the place a holiday feel. It was probably almost midnight as the Doctor and Clara followed Cathedral Lane back to the town square, and then found the road leading to the marketplace. For a moment the Doctor felt a pang of something -- regret, perhaps, that when they left Lagradil the power they’d discovered together might fade. Call it what you like -- and he was still reluctant to use the word magic, but something magical  _ had _ happened when they held hands and imagined gold leaves onto the trees, and created hummingbirds and flowers and books. He’d felt power rushing through his body and a sweetness in the joining of their minds. Perhaps it was the hybrid afterall. What if it all faded when they got back to the TARDIS? Nothing was forever, he knew that better than anyone. He glanced at Clara, striding along at his side, so very much the warrior on the outside now to match her warrior’s heart. Part of him wanted to hang onto that forever.

He sighed. Maybe the power would fade, maybe it wouldn’t, but whatever happened next they wouldn’t forget what they learned here. As for what  _ would _ come next, he hoped it included kissing Clara again. And a hot shower. Possibly kissing Clara  _ in _ a hot shower. That thought tangled his senses until he felt quite hot under the collar.   

“Doctor. Where is it?” Clara’s tight voice broke through his musings. He looked where she was pointing.

“The TARDIS, where is it?”

“Well it was here.” Not giving in to the flush of panic, because surely there would be an explanation, he examined the ground. The square indentation left no doubt the TARDIS had been there. Equally, there was no disputing the fact that now it was not. He straightened himself up, eyes sweeping the ground, the marketplace, the roads leading to other areas of town, for clues.  

The Doctor called to an old woman, dressed in rags, who was making a bed against the wooden part of a market stall, now that the wares had been carted away for the night. “The blue box. Where did it go?” 

“Blue box?”

“Yes! It’s been there for days.”

“Took it away.”

“ _ Who _ took it away?”

The old woman shrugged. “Loaded it onto a cart. Went that way.” The woman waved a disinterested arm and closed her eyes.

“Which way?” the Doctor exclaimed.

The old woman didn’t open her eyes. “To the docks. Buzz off. Trying to sleep.” 

The Doctor’s stomach flipped. It would be alright. The TARDIS was always safe. Combined forces of the Cyberman army and Dalek empire couldn’t get through those doors. Clara’s eyes were wide, fearful. They ran down the lane towards the docks. The harbour was dark and quiet at this hour, with three tall ships moored on the quay, their sails furled about the mast. Marco stood next to his cheese wagon, talking with the harbourmaster.

“Blue box. Brought this way on a cart…” the Doctor panted. “Did you see it?”

Marco nodded. “They loaded it onto the  _ Imperial Voyager _ . Must have been heavy because it took twelve sailors and a mage to lift it.”

Clara covered her mouth with her hands.

“What? Where’s the  _ Imperial Voyager _ now?” The Doctor scanned the horizon, but in those gently rippling waters, the moon shining as in a dark mirror, he saw no sign of a ship.

Marco looked from the Doctor to Clara. “She sailed three hours ago. Fastest ship in the Caldonian fleet.” 

The Doctor groaned, pacing up and down, all the time pulling his hands through his hair. This was bad. Very bad. 

Clara finally stopped him pacing. “Doctor,” she said sharply. “What the hell are we going to do now?”

He forced his feet to hold still. “That’s a good question.” He looked into her eyes. No TARDIS, no sonic screwdriver, and no money unless Clara had some. All they had were their wits and each other. What the hell  _ were _ they going to do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here we are. I've fallen so in love with Warrior!Clara and Twelve in this magical world, that I can't quite let them go. I'm really proud of this story and have loved writing it! But I have other projects I must focus on for a while (The Sarah Jane Smith Roving Reporter anthology and the Untold Adventures project with Clara and Me) so I have to pause this one for now. 
> 
> That said, if enough of you let me know you've enjoyed this and want more, Clara and the Doctor could return later this year in a whole new adventure called, "The Mage King's Cloak."

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this story you might also enjoy Time Shadows 2: Second Nature, an unofficial charity anthology featuring all 12 incarnations of the Doctor plus the War Doctor. Available to print on demand,  
> Digital download to be released soon.
> 
> {{{The Twelfth Doctor and Clara story by Kate Coleman 'Divergence' rather good}}}}  
> http://pseudoscopepublishing.com/timeshadows/


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